The Hollow Woman
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Forced to return to London sooner than expected, Sherlock falls into a case too close to home.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I'd never intended to throw my hat into the "Return of Sherlock Holmes" ring - I wasn't trying to avoid it, I just never really thought I'd have something to contribute. But inspiration for a story is a fickle thing and here I am, over a year later, with plot bunnies nesting away.

There are a few people I'd like to thank. First and foremost, my beta, **AGirloftheSouth**, for her constant support, perspective, and general tidying up of my work. **Verity Burns,** for a fantastic conversation in a fantastic pub about origin stories. And **Ariane DeVere**, who painstakingly transcribed each of the 6 episodes, which is an invaluable resource to any author.

I am posting warnings for: major character death, violence, and probably some M/M porn (but let's be honest, why else are we here? ;)

* * *

"Am I too late?"

_Yes_. The answer was writ large in his expression, but it was also a lie, a desire to cause pain. Not an unexpected one – and there was no time for it, judging by the hard swallow that pushed down the impulse to be cruel. Cold blue eyes met his, holding them for a long moment – too long a moment, given the circumstances – but then John gave a shake of his head. An economic, almost truncated motion, so military in its reserve.

"No. She's waiting for you."

John held his ground for a fraction too long – a small rebellion, or maybe a warning. With a sigh he looked and stepped away, letting Sherlock move past into the small hospital room.

* * *

John hated the smell of hospitals now, that stale-pungent aroma of disinfectant, medication, and illness. The air felt heavy, like it never moved, like he couldn't quite expel it from his lungs. It was a feeling he'd carried when he'd been in the hospital himself – one he thought he'd overcome before _it_. The event had no name, because calling it what it was had been so hard – too hard.

And it had all been a lie.

He was trading one death for another, and the thought made him dig the heels of his hands into his eyes. Part of him wanted to deny the whole thing – this _could_ be a dream. He'd dreamt about _then_ so often that it only surprised him now when he opened his eyes in the morning and didn't remember it plaguing his sleep.

But no amount of denial or pinching the back of his hand would alter the reality. Age and illness breaking down a body. Two weeks of hospital visits, all the drawn out waiting, facing the possibility – no, the _certainty_ – that he was losing another link on the too-small chain that had reconnected him the world.

A meeting with Mycroft – and actual meeting, scheduled in advance – and explanations that hadn't made sense to his stunned mind then.

Or now.

Promises that Sherlock would be located and return before the end. An explanation to Mrs. Hudson with John there holding her hand, the delight and relief in her eyes had made him feel nauseous and guilty. Had made him want to run – a typical response for him, according to Ella, who knew these things. He forced himself to stay because _running_ was what Sherlock had done, and John wasn't leaving.

Not this time.

Not now.

He rubbed his hands together, suddenly acutely aware of the smoothness of his skin – in Afghanistan, his hands had always been chapped, calloused. It made him feel too sedentary, too complacent, and the urge to leave this all behind pushed him from his seat, made him pace lengths along the corridor in hopes that it would dissipate.

Some small, stubborn part of him ignored the sound of the door opening again, made him wait, facing away, forcing Sherlock to say his name.

"John."

John turned, keeping everything in check – especially the anger Sherlock would read anyway, all the resentments that they didn't have time for now.

"She'd like to see you."

* * *

"Are you all right?" John asked gently, taking her hand in his, surprised by the strength that still lingered there.

"Not according to all my doctors, love," Mrs. Hudson replied. But the light in her eyes told a different story – she looked better than she had even fifteen minutes ago. "But are you?"

He mustered a smile, it felt wan but he hoped it passed as convincing.

"I'll be fine," he promised.

"Don't be angry with him, John. He explained everything. Why he did it. Why he had to do it."

"Yes. I know." Mycroft had gone to great lengths to ensure he knew.

"Life is too short. I don't want you boys fighting for the rest of yours."

"It'll be fine," he said, leaning over to kiss the parchment skin of her cheek to cover the lie. "Don't worry."

* * *

The silence was a blessing. John didn't have any desire to speak – he had questions, but didn't want to ask them. Didn't want to give Sherlock the satisfaction.

He could feel the detective's grey eyes on him once in awhile – flickering up to assess whatever Sherlock thought he was assessing. Everything, probably. He tried for awhile to give nothing away then gave up, too tired to sustain the effort. Let Sherlock deduce what he wanted to deduce. There were more important things to think of.

The daylight faded to dusk blue then to night. John caught sight of the occasional guard wandering outside the door – nothing so obvious as uniformed security. A man in jeans and a shirt and a tie on his mobile, looking harassed. A woman cleaning the floor. An orderly and a nurse having a quiet conversation.

These were Mycroft's people after all.

There to protect Sherlock.

The sounds of the hospital became more muted as time past, as visitors left, as shifts finished changing, as doctors ended rounds. The quiet company of the monitors beeping was a familiar one to John – so many years as a surgeon, so many weeks in recovery. In the early days here, he'd kept track of them, watching for signs of hope. Now he checked them only as a matter of routine.

Waiting for them to change.

The flatline came sometime just after midnight, but there was no rush of a response team, no crash carts, no coding. The doctor came in, summoned by the nurse, who turned everything off, leaving the room as peaceful as the death had been. Despite himself, John breathed a sigh, feeling an expected flash of guilt at the rush of relief that there was no more waiting, that it was done, and that it had been without tears or pain or fear.

After Sherlock's – _disappearance_, Mrs. Hudson had given John power of attorney and made him her executor. With her sister in a home and recognizing almost no one, she'd insisted he was all she had.

He'd told her the same.

Mrs. Hudson had brushed that off – and John knew she was right to. Things with Harry were better than they'd ever been. Consistently better.

But Mrs. Hudson had been family all the same. A mother he hadn't had in years. A son she'd never had at all.

There were papers to sign and people to talk to and decisions to be made as the night wore on into the early hours of the morning. When it was finished, when she was gone to be seen to by all the right people, Sherlock was still there.

John felt a dull thrum of surprise – both at the fact that the detective had stayed and that he was _there_. Real, present, tangible. Not a dream. Not this time. Standing awkwardly, hands in the pockets of that coat – _God, did he get it cleaned after that?_ John wondered, trying not to wince at the memory of the blood, shaken by another memory of Sherlock in a cemetery in Grimpen, looking apologetic.

Too much death – John shook all the memories away, shrugging his coat over his shoulders, aware of Sherlock watching the motion, judging it. Let him figure out that his shoulder didn't bother him so much anymore but that the blasted limp came back now and again.

It wasn't going to tonight. Not if he had any say in it.

"Where are you staying then?" John asked, hating that he really did care. That he was interested and that he wanted Sherlock to have a place to go so he could be angrier with his former friend.

A quick glance away, licking his lower lip and biting it briefly – and John realized Sherlock didn't know. It stunned him into immobility for a moment; Sherlock had landed in London and come straight here.

"Mycroft's, I imagine," he replied, and John didn't imagine the note of distaste – reluctance – that had slipped into his voice. It might have been deliberate, but he doubted it was feigned. A hesitant pause and Sherlock actually shifted uncomfortably. "You're still at the flat."

It wasn't a question, so John didn't nod. If Sherlock had internet access – and John couldn't imagine the great Sherlock Holmes without internet access – then he'd have been reading the blog. It had taken awhile to start up again, and had been as stilted and patchy as his first attempts, but as the year had worn on, it had been better. Some rough spots – Christmas, Sherlock's birthday. And he'd been dreading the one year anniversary of his best friend's death.

A twitch crossed his lips. He'd been spared that. Spared by a lie.

"You could stay at hers," he said. "I doubt she mi– Well it doesn't matter what she would have thought now, does it?"

"She left you the house." Again not a question, but there was a shadow of one in there. John gave a curt nod.

"Then it's a matter of whether or not you mind."

"Yeah. I do," John replied. "You can stay anyway."

* * *

John hailed a cab outside of the hospital, a dislocated feeling making him almost dizzy when Sherlock moved to do it, like two separate lives were being superimposed on one another. Like all that time had never happened and Sherlock was back into old habits but John wasn't.

He'd learned – or become used to – operating on his own, of being one whole entity, not half of a pair. Like living without a shadow.

Without a partner.

John snapped the door closed behind him; Sherlock shut his more gently, letting John give the address. The same silence descended – only it _wasn't_ the same. The questions that hadn't mattered a few hours ago were clambering for attention now, churning in his throat, poised on his tongue and lips, fighting to be voiced.

"Molly knew." He heard himself saying it without intending to, without even having realized it until now. The weight of all the implications hit him, made him lean back in his seat and exhale a slow breath – without something to distract him from it, the reality seemed overwhelming. The plans. The details.

The lies.

"Molly knew," Sherlock confirmed. "I needed her help to make this work."

John bit his lip against the retort, watching the sleeping city slide by through the smoky glass.

"I visited, you know. Every week. _Sherlock, who was I visiting?_" The silence made his head snap back; Sherlock had his hands in his pockets again, meeting his eyes only reluctantly. "Mycroft said _he_ was dead, that he shot himself on the roof of Bart's. If you weren't in that bloody coffin, _who was_?"

"It was him," Sherlock confirmed, voice low, almost hesitant.

"Jesus Christ," John muttered, pressing a fist against his lips, looking away again, but this time it wasn't the city – or even the battlefield – he saw. A cemetery, a polished, gleaming black headstone. A body rotting in the ground that deserved nothing better – but that certainly hadn't deserved his grief and his companionship.

"He was least likely to be found there. No one would think to look."

John was spared having to answer when the cab slowed. He paid the driver – probably tipped him too much, but it didn't matter – and scrambled out of the car as quickly as angry dignity would allow. Sherlock followed him inside, a silent shadow.

"Here," John said, fumbling for Mrs. Hudson's keys in his pockets. He passed them off into a waiting palm, fingers brushing Sherlock's, sending a hard jolt down his spine. They hadn't touched, not once. No hugs. No punches.

He _wanted_ to punch Sherlock, get a reaction – shock, surprise, pain. Anything. The desire made the nerves in his hand burn but he wrestled himself under control. He could do without the broken bones. He'd spent too much time in hospitals lately.

He wasn't worth it.

"No bloody violin music," John muttered as he started up the stairs. "I need to sleep."

"You've got my violin," Sherlock replied, stopping John cold. Despite himself, he looked back down; Sherlock met his eyes levelly but there was something else there. Pain. Grief. Longing.

Mrs. Hudson was dead, and Sherlock wasn't.

He wanted everything to go back to normal – it never could, but god he wanted it to.

Sherlock wanted the same.

At three in the morning, it seemed somehow possible, even easy. _Come upstairs, your room's still the way you left it, all your things are still there_–

Old habits die hard.

_Especially when they're not dead_, John thought.

"Get some sleep," he made himself say, picking up his pace again.

"John. I had to. To save your life."

He paused again, hand on the railing, looking up at the wall ahead of him for a long moment before glancing back down.

"Yeah," John said. "I know. But did you have to take yours right in front of me?"


	2. Chapter 2

"_It's here. It's in here with me."_

"_Where are you?" Pressure, movement. Restricted like walking in molasses and he was trying to hurry, he was trying but he was stumbling, lights blinding, one step in front of the other, too slow – this wasn't right, this wasn't how it was supposed to be–_

"_Get me out, Sherlock. You have got to get me out." Whispers broken with terror, suddenly muted._

"_John? John?"_

"_Now Sherlock. _Please._"_

_A hurried nod that couldn't be seen over the phone – _stupid!_ he chided himself._

"_All right, I'll find you. Keep talking."_ _Corridors were warped, leading back on themselves, never ending, but John– John was there, somewhere. Somewhere he'd been before, he _knew_ where only he couldn't find the memory past the bright lights, his slow, unsteady footsteps._

"_I can't. It'll hear me."_

"_Keep talking." _Keep talking, keep talking, I can almost hear you, I can– _"What are you seeing?" Because he couldn't now but hadn't he been able to before, some other time, watching from a monitor? This wasn't right, it _wasn't_–_

"_John?"_

"_Yes, I'm here." Relief so strong he wanted to stop but the whole point was to save John, and how could he do that now if he stopped?_

"_What can you see?" Stay calm, stay calm, voice level, betray nothing–_

"_I don't know. I don't know."_

"_Stay calm, stay calm." Words to John, words to himself. They weren't working. "Can see you see it? Can you _see_ it?"_

"_No, I can… I _can_ see it."_

"_I'm coming, John, just stay calm."_

"_He's here, Sherlock. Moriarty. I can see him. He's here."_

* * *

Light, sounds, smells, sensations – all wrong. Heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his back, his fingers, his ears, obscuring vision with the scream of adrenaline in his veins that had him sitting up halfway before he realized, before he could stop himself moving and–

Street lights, traffic, fading perfume, old cotton.

London.

Mrs. Hudson's.

It had been a dream.

It had been _the_ dream, the one that had pursued him the past nine months, ambushing him unaware only a scant few days after the fall. Hounding his sleep for nights on end, only to disappear abruptly, leaving him with a false sense of security until it returned.

Sherlock had seen Moriarty's face at the hollow that night, in place of Frankland's. John had seen the hound in the lab, a figment of his imagination conjured by drugs and suggestion.

John had seen Sherlock die, a carefully constructed lie designed to protect him.

There were no monsters.

There were no monsters that weren't other men.

_He_ was long gone, a pool of blood and brains and fading madness in the eyes, buried in a grave that wasn't his – but forgotten? Oh no. The network had crumbled when he'd fallen but crumbled wasn't collapsed, and some of them were still out there.

John had been in their sights, watched from above, unnoticed. The way Sherlock had watched him in the lab at Baskerville – but there were no reassurances then, no false pretences. His life or Sherlock's.

It had never even been a choice. Stepping onto thin air, feeling the tug of gravity, faking the suicide – for John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. One gone anyway, one unaware, one so close and yet further than he had ever been.

Sleep wasn't coming back, at least not yet. Not in the wake of the nightmare – Sherlock knew better than that by now. He made himself get up – a recent habit that seemed so old – and found his way to the kitchen in the dark. In his travels, he'd taken whatever comfort was available – coffee, alcohol, even water if it was all he had.

Here, at home, at last, he wanted tea.

But the milk had gone off; he didn't even need to sniff it to know that. His eyes flickered to the ceiling – he could do it with the few tools he had on him, but even if John never knew, Sherlock would, and the idea of boundaries was almost as appalling as it was certain. John didn't want him there.

With a sigh, the milk went down the sink and Sherlock muddled through with a cup of coffee made of unpalatable freeze-dried grounds from a tin, stirring in more sugar than normal to cover the acrid taste.

A cigarette. He could have used a cigarette. Had John thrown away his secret supply? It'd be stale by now anyway – but it wouldn't have mattered. It would have helped.

Half a world away he'd longed for home, bolstering himself with memories of Baker Street. The mish-mash, haphazard smells from the sandwich shop. The sound of violin music. The scents of clean laundry, of take away, of beer. The warmth of Mrs. Hudson's fussing.

He'd promised himself he'd have it back.

That was the whole point. Save what was worth saving. It would be there when he returned.

Only it wasn't, because Mrs. Hudson was gone, without dramatics, without confusion. A soft sigh lost in the night and that had been it.

And John was gone as surely as he was upstairs. Had moved on. All the little tells were there – hailed a cab for himself, didn't check to see if Sherlock had the keys, climbed the stairs alone without hesitation.

It was home, but a pale reflection of home, everything stripped away, leaving him alone in an empty flat with only a cup of tepid, vile coffee as company.

* * *

John hadn't meant to fall asleep but the disoriented grogginess as he blinked his eyes open and tried to stretch his cramped shoulders was enough to puzzle out what had happened. He focused on the clock – slowly. A little after eight in the morning. The last he'd remembered seeing was four-thirty.

He sat up quickly when the noises from below registered, wincing at the flare of pain in his shoulder, just catching himself before charging downstairs. _Listen_, he told himself. There was a moment of panic that it was Sherlock, confusion about why he'd think that.

The memories from the previous night sorted themselves out, replaying for him in what he considered unnecessary detail.

Mrs. Hudson was dead. Sherlock was not. Those were the facts; everything else was extraneous.

_God you sound like him,_ he told himself. And how many times over the past nine months had he caught himself thinking like Sherlock had– did? Or as close as he could get anyway. It had been painful at first, then had made him smile in a bittersweet way.

Now it just annoyed him.

But it wasn't Sherlock downstairs – not enough noise and not enough stifled noises. If the detective were there, he'd either want John to really know or not know at all. This was someone more accustomed to being in his home and for a moment – just a moment – he pictured Mrs. Hudson. It felt right and made him nauseous to remember.

_Get it together, Watson_, he told himself. He wasn't facing his family this way.

John padded downstairs slowly, valiantly ignoring the twinge in his leg that was nothing more than in his mind. It was Harry in the kitchen, making tea, giving him a kind, sympathetic smile that he didn't have the heart to return.

"John. I'm so sorry." She folded her arms around him, and he tried to remember when it had started feeling comfortable, even comforting, to hug his sister. There was something solid about her. Steady. He still worried about her, but less and less as time went by.

"Thanks," he murmured. Harry kissed his cheek, giving his good shoulder a quick squeeze.

"Where's Mary?" he asked.

"She just nipped down to the shops. I wanted to make you a real breakfast, but you've hardly got anything."

"I haven't been here much."

"I know. I didn't think of it until I got here." She passed him a mug of tea, which John took gratefully. The warmth against his hands and on his tongue made him feel more grounded. He sank into his chair; Harry curled into the other one – Sherlock's – tucking her feet under her.

"How was it?" she asked hesitantly. John nodded, sipping his tea to give himself a moment.

"Peaceful," he said. "She was–" Words failed him suddenly, undone by the pinpricks of heat around his eyes. He set his tea aside quickly, pressing a thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose, sucking a few slow, deep breaths. The sound of his sister shifting made him hold up his other hand, giving his head a brief shake.

"I'm okay," he promised. "I'm all right. She was sleeping. No better way to go, really."

This time, Harry's compassionate expression was too hard to take. John looked away, at the floor, half wishing he were alone.

"And Sherlock? Is he really– back?"

"Yeah. Yeah, um, he's downstairs. Sleeping probably. Who knows. He was there. It made her happy."

"What about you?" Harry asked gently.

He was saved from an answer he didn't think he had by the sound of the door opening below and footsteps on the stairs. Mary appeared in the doorway, a laden bag in one arm, a kind, sad smile on her lips.

"Oh, John, I'm so sorry." An echo of what his sister had said, another kiss on the cheek as she bent down to give him a light hug.

"Thanks, Mary."

"I got everything you asked for, love," she said, turning to Harry, who squeezed her hand briefly. "John, let us at least make you a decent meal. You look like you haven't had one in weeks." He managed a wan smile, nodding. It was hard to remember the last time he'd eaten without feeling rushed, without resorting to take away or left over hastily reheated in the microwave.

"My mum always says that everything's better on a full stomach."

He smiled again, more genuinely this time.

"Smart woman, your mum," he said.

* * *

It was an odd feeling, being envious of Harry. If John were honest with himself, he _could_ remember the last time he'd felt such an easy familiarity with someone else, and it had been long before his last tour to Afghanistan. As his sister bid her girlfriend good-bye with a quick kiss, part of John wished he had that now. After Sherlock's – after Sherlock, women had been an escape, and John had never let anything go on too long.

Ella had challenged him on it. He'd pushed back by not changing his patterns. It felt good – most of the time. Seeing Harry and Mary together, it didn't.

Harry shut the door gently – gone were the days when it was kept open, when Mrs. Hudson would come and go, when strangers, clients, and police, would tramp up and down the stairs at all hours. A normal flat, a normal home.

He was shocked to realize suddenly how much he loathed that.

"I know this isn't what you want to hear," Harry began. "But you should talk to him."

"About what?" John snapped, then relented, holding up his hands. "Sorry, Harry, sorry."

"John," she sighed, crouching in front of him, wrapping her hands loosely over his. "You don't have to apologize to me. You've just lost someone important to you, and regained someone you thought was dead. He's your best friend, John."

"Was," John stressed. "He threw himself off a building right in front of me."

"To save your life," Harry replied. "I know, I know, it doesn't make it all right. I'm not happy with him, either, but you can't live your whole life being angry like this. Believe me."

He chuckled wryly, looking away. Harry's expression was quizzical when he met her eyes again.

"It's just– Mrs. Hudson said the same thing before– yesterday."

"Well, she's right."

"Was," John murmured again. "She _was_ right."

His sister sighed faintly, eyes closing for a moment.

"Please just try," she said. "I think you owe it to yourself."

"And to him?" John asked, voice harsher than he'd intended, but this time, he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry about it.

"Maybe that too," Harry agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

The knock on the door came too soon after John had rung off with the funeral home. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and hoped Sherlock would just go away.

Another knock, slightly more hesitant, made John sigh in resignation. He should have known it was no good trying to pretend he was out. Sherlock could probably tell he was home by the lack of scuff marks on the stairs.

"Fine," he muttered, hauling himself to his feet. His right leg twinged; he ignored it and strode toward the door, blocking the entrance with his body.

"Yeah?"

"Do you still have any of my clothes?"

John stared, his brain trying to rearrange the words into something else – anything else. It seemed somehow so mundane, given the circumstances.

"Haven't got a whole new wardrobe?" he demanded, and winced inwardly at the slight tightening around Sherlock's eyes. The detective had gone straight from the airport to the hospital, after all. He probably hadn't stopped to pack anything, worried there wouldn't be enough time.

The realization made John relent, stepping back to let Sherlock in.

"As a matter of fact, I do. Have almost all of your stuff, actually. Read into that whatever you want."

"You wanted me to come back," Sherlock commented, and John bristled at the undertone of cool, calculated assessment. Like he was another variable in another case. A reaction that was all too easily understood.

"Yeah, actually, I did," he snapped.

"And now that I'm here, you want me gone."

The observation stopped him cold. If he'd been anyone else – if _Sherlock_ had been anyone else – the statement would have seemed as factual and flat as the last one. It sounded like a simple comment on the surface – one Sherlock would have deduced as easily as breathing – but John _heard_ the change in tone just beneath the surface. A moment of regret. Or maybe pain.

"I didn't mess up your sock index, if that's what you're worried about," he said.

"It's not," Sherlock replied, but had turned away before John could even draw the breath to respond, disappearing into his old bedroom.

John sat down hard in his chair, the flat fading from his vision. A sense of normality hit him so hard he felt dizzy, resisting putting his head between his knees if only because he didn't want Sherlock to see it. The sounds from the bedroom, the open door – Mrs. Hudson could walk up the stairs right now, fussing over the state of the flat, over some experiment of Sherlock's–

John pushed himself to his feet and was in the kitchen before he knew it, leaning against the counter, pressing the heels of hands into his eyes. A couple of deep, shaky breaths got him under control again. He was _not_ going to do this with Sherlock here.

He busied himself making tea, letting the silent resentment at preparing two cups seethe until it wiped away the worst of the grief. By the time he was finished, Sherlock had re-emerged into the livingroom, a small stack of suits and shirts folded carefully over one arm.

John extended the tea without comment; Sherlock actually seemed flustered for a moment before draping his clothing over the chair. He moved away to stand by the window, back to John, gazing over the street. John ignored anything being implied by the posture and sank back into his chair.

"What will you do with the house?" The question startled him slightly; he took a sip of tea to cover the reaction. He wanted to say he didn't know yet, but that would be a lie.

"Pack up her flat and rent it out. In this part of the city, I can get a good rate for it. I'll use the money to fix up the C flat and rent that as well. She'd been saving up to have that done, but my rent wasn't enough to cover all the renovations."

A slow nod from Sherlock, but he didn't turn back.

"I'd be happy to pay whatever rate you decide to charge," he said. "With the added bonus that I can assist with the packing up. I haven't got much, so I'll buy the furniture from you."

"What, Mycroft hasn't just assigned you a place to live yet?"

"It appears not."

"Jesus Christ," John sighed. "You're going to do this? Just waltz back in here after nine months and assume–"

"That is very clearly _not_ what I'm doing, John. I'll even pay you for storing my things during those nine months, if you'd like."

John sucked in a slow breath, held it, released it even more slowly. Sherlock was baiting him – or he wanted to think Sherlock was baiting him. After so long – and still roiling from all the lies – it was hard to tell.

"You can stay down there for now. Until we get things sorted out."

"And what things will we sort out, John?"

"You tell me. You're the genius."

Sherlock fell silent, sipping his tea, still staring out the window. With another sigh, John tried to let it go. He couldn't, but he could at least try.

It wasn't so bad right now with the silence. Different than the night before in the hospital and the early morning cab ride home. Almost all right.

Almost.

"When is the memorial service?" Sherlock asked.

"Sunday. Will you come?"

"Of course I will," Sherlock replied. Not the snide answer John had expected. Not the derisiveness or scoffing at such an obvious question. A simple response that was so out of character that it made John look up. Made him _really_ look at Sherlock.

He seemed calm, watching the city below, raising his tea cup to his lips every so often, but John looked closely. Saw the tautness drawing parallel lines down either side of his neck. Saw the shudder that shivered across his shoulders.

John couldn't see his face, and he'd have never have known from Sherlock's voice, but the detective was crying.

The outward composure stunned him; he almost said something, pursing his lips at the last minute as he cast about mentally for some way of freeing Sherlock from the situation.

"I'm having another," he said, despite the half full mug he still had in his hand. John made a point of getting up, taking a few steps toward the kitchen. "Want one?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock replied in that same level voice that didn't betray him. "If you don't mind, I think I'll go downstairs and change."

* * *

Three sharp, insistent buzzes from downstairs made John pause. He clicked his laptop shut with a sigh when they came again. Sherlock wasn't going to answer the door. He hadn't been inclined to do that when they'd– before. He'd leave the mundane greeting of clients to John.

That obviously hadn't changed.

Cold evening air rushed in along with Greg Lestrade, startling John enough that he stepped back as a pair of dark, angry eyes rounded on him.

"Is it true? Where the bloody hell is he? Upstairs?"

A reply was cut off by the sound of the ground floor flat's door opening, and Lestrade's attention was rerouted.

"Here," Sherlock said, stepping into the corridor.

"You sodding bastard!" The distance was crossed almost before John could register the movement, almost before he saw the flicker of surprise cross Sherlock's face the moment before Lestrade's fist connected with it. The _crack_ of a skull hitting the wall made him jump forward, arms around Lestrade's shoulders, pulling back as best he could against the struggle. Unused muscles protested, but old habits returned without any effort – except that which his lungs exerted as he fought to get Lestrade under control.

"_You sodding bastard!_ Sergeant! They busted me down to sergeant because of you, working a bloody local precinct and–"

"Do you want to be busted down to PC now?" John shouted over him, deliberately unbalancing himself to fall backwards, hauling Lestrade down with him. Scrambling between the two of them quickly, eyes raking over Sherlock, who looked dazed, a trickle of blood marring his pale skin where he'd been cut. Holding out a warning hand when Lestrade moved to get up again. Shoulders heaving, muscles bracing for another round.

"Protecting him, John? What the bloody hell has he done for you?"

"Protecting _you_, Greg. You think the Met'd be happy if they found out one of their officers is bursting into private homes and attacking people? Especially you." The last was a nasty blow but it hit the mark; Lestrade's nostrils flared as he relented, exhaling hard.

The demotion hadn't been a pretty affair – and widely publicized, given Lestrade's connection with the 'fake genius' who had apparently orchestrated a kidnapping – among other things – then leapt to his death. At the time, John had been surprised the demotion hadn't been further down, or even dismissal. Now that he thought about it – now that he _knew_ about Sherlock – he thought he caught a whiff of Mycroft's involvement.

"Sherlock, you all right?" he asked without looking away, one hand still extended toward the sergeant.

"Yes. Fine."

John nodded, backing up slowly.

"How long've you known?" Lestrade spat, angry gaze fixed on the doctor.

"A week."

"Couldn't be bothered to tell me then?"

"It's a lot less fucking long than Molly Hooper or Mycroft Holmes knew, and I wouldn't have known if Mrs. Hudson hadn't died. Think that's something I'm happy about?"

"It wasn't his information to share," Sherlock added, voice cool and level – _deceptive_, John thought.

"You cost me my job," Lestrade spat. "I was lucky I wasn't sacked. Lost everything I had – the job, my wife, credibility–"

"But not your _life_."

"Oh yes, the generous and loving Sherlock Holmes, always so self-sacrificing–"

"Believe what you'd like," Sherlock sighed, pushing himself to his feet. John's eyes narrowed at the way the detective braced himself lightly, fingers against the wall. "I have work to do."

"You owe me an explanation–"

"Not now he doesn't," John growled.

"Taking his side, are you?"

"You just bounced his head off a wall and I'd really like to make sure he doesn't have a concussion. Get out, Greg. Calm down. Come back when I don't have to worry about bringing assault charges against a friend."

That earned him a glower, but the door knocked shut behind Lestrade's retreating form, letting another small gust of cold air waft past them until it absorbed the warmth and dissipated.

"Can you make it up the stairs?" John asked. "My stuff's all up there."

* * *

"Probably some kind of record," John murmured, dabbing the cut carefully, ignoring the faint twitches of discomfort, the way Sherlock's eyes focused on the ceiling. "Unlucky for you his dad gave him that ring before he died. Wears it all the time."

"What record is this?" Sherlock asked.

"Back less than twenty-four hours and I'm already patching you up again. Hold still, you're not helping."

"You didn't punch me," Sherlock observed.

"Clever as always."

"You wanted to."

"Yeah, well, there were more important things going on, weren't there?"

"You've restrained yourself well since then."

"Don't get soppy on me. Lestrade beat me to it is all."

"He's right handed; you're not. I could have a matching set."

"You're really pushing your luck, aren't you? Hold still and I bloody well mean it."

Once cleaned and sewn up with three small stitches – John took a certain amount of professional pride that he could still do that so neatly – he made Sherlock suffer through the requisite concussion examination, holding up fingers to be counted, checking his pupils with a pen light. Ignoring the little impatient shifts and twitches.

"You may have a headache and a bump. Take some ibuprofen, put some ice on it."

Sherlock nodded; John rolled his eyes at the obvious lie.

"And eat some actual food. You've lost weight."

"So have you."

"I've had a rough year. My best friend threw himself off a building in front of me, then it turned out it was all a lie. Apparently he thought he was saving my life."

Sherlock met his gaze but said nothing. With a sigh, John folded his arms over his chest.

"I knew you were for real. One hundred percent."

"'Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick _all_ the time'," Sherlock replied.

"Wasn't good enough for you?"

"It needed to be _true_, John," Sherlock sighed.

"I could've–"

"And could you have kept it from Mrs. Hudson? Could you have pretended, watching her go through the grief, and kept the lie? And if you'd told her, could you have stopped her from telling Lestrade? Could you have avoided telling him? Once one link is broken, what's to stop the rest from snapping? This was the only way."

"There's _always_ a choice, Sherlock," John snapped.

"Yes," the detective agreed, pushing himself carefully to his feet. "And I chose not to have you die."


	4. Chapter 4

Senses were heightened here, rushing to meet memory, to compare and update old information. There was a familiarity to the night air, to the way the breeze teased him with smells and distant sounds. _Security._ It wasn't a concept Sherlock had considered until it had been gone, until it was only the memory of home that sustained him, not the real thing.

Easier now to ignore that he didn't have the real thing but a faded second best. A ground floor flat that smelled of warmth and lingering perfumes, where he slotted his meagre possessions next to those that weren't possessed anymore, that existed solely to take up space in a space that belonged to no one.

On the street, he could pretend otherwise. He had Baker Street, after a fashion. John was still there. Still looked the same in his casual jumpers. Still smelled the same – shampoo and deodorant and minty toothpaste and tea. Mrs. Hudson may be gone, but Sherlock clung to the memories of final moments, of joy and relief, of shining eyes and the warmth of a hand around his.

Fascinating that he'd missed human contact. That he _still_ missed it, even in the middle of it, rekindling relationships, re-establishing contacts. Suspicions about his identity, about his return, were mislaid with money – it irked him that it came from Mycroft, but he could understand necessity. Tiresome to be in his brother's debt – even if Mycroft wasn't asking for repayment – but soon he'd be on his own again.

_Soon_. Or maybe a bit later than he'd like, but it was coming. Contacts on the street were one thing, but those who had nothing couldn't pay. Information was their currency of choice, in exchange for the real thing from him. Access to the Met – that would take longer. Rebuilding trust, clearing his name… it was coming but it wasn't here yet. He could taste it, smell it – but not touch it.

_Still,_ he told himself. _Still._ He was home, even if _home_ was broken. It was still Baker Street. John would come round. There were ways of seeing to that. He repeated that until it became true, a prophecy rather than a prayer.

And with redemption would come paying clients. Money was not an issue – or at least it wasn't meant to be. A distraction. Eating and sleeping were the same. Requirements for living, keeping him from cases.

The buzz of his phone in his pocket was another distraction; with a sigh, Sherlock fished it out, ducking into the relative shelter of a doorway, cupping a gloved hand over the screen in futile defence against the misting rain.

_Park Lane. Your expertise needed. There's a car waiting. M_

* * *

"No police, Mycroft?"

"We have several military police officers inside, but in this area, I think even you can appreciate a certain need for discretion."

"Yes, I'm sure the victim's family is paying handsomely for your 'discretion'."

"I had hoped the past nine months would have altered your views somewhat."

"I'm perfectly happy to leave," Sherlock replied lightly, mind already winding down the paths he needed to take to get his base back – hardly something he could accomplish here in the gilt and splendour – and the subtle, expensive smell – of old money.

"Unfortunately for me, this is precisely the kind of thing at which you excel," his brother sighed.

"Ah. You mean everything."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, tapping his umbrella against the floor, the thickness of the Persian rug absorbing the sounds of the impact.

"We don't have time for this. Come meet Mister Adair."

"Adair? As in The Right Honourable?"

"I'm impressed by your sudden knowledge of our nobility. But no. His son – which rather complicates the situation, actually. As much as you dislike the discretion, I suspect we will not be able to keep him from speaking out against this for long. The sooner you have something for me, the better."

A small library or an office, walls lined with bookshelves – custom made, built into the walls. Desk with a laptop that was closed, powered down, untouched. Empty mug sitting beside the laptop, faint ring half visible beneath it – it had been moved, but not recently. The desk was tidy, pens and pencils stored in a small mug with a broken handle – an odd touch of sentiment in a room that was otherwise impeccably decorated.

"Who found him?"

"The housekeeper. Less than an hour ago."

"I'll need to speak with her when I'm done here. Give me gloves and everyone get out."

What was it about the hesitation at an order? Mycroft repeated it at a murmur as Sherlock snapped the latex over his hands, stepping carefully toward the chair.

Body hadn't been moved. Died where he had been sitting, kept almost upright by the wingback chair. No smell of gunpowder, no residue on the skin. Single entry wound at the temple, no exit wound. A lap desk had fallen when he'd been hit, overturned and scattering papers and pencils around his feet. High quality artists' paper, likely specially printed or limited distribution – something to check on. Pencils of equal quality, but nothing that couldn't be easily purchased for the right price.

Simple sketches – elegant, the product of a talented hand. Sherlock turned that hand over now. Evidence of graphite smudging on the fingers, along the side of the hand where it had rubbed the sheets.

And ink. Blue, dry but not faded.

"He has ink on his hands. He was writing something."

"We found no pens on or around him," Mycroft said. "Part of the drawings, perhaps?"

"No, it's only on the thumb and the middle finger – right where it would be if it were a fountain pen that was leaking slightly."

"Who writes anymore?" his brother asked.

"Him, apparently. At least he did." Quick glance at the fireplace opposite, but it was empty and cold, no hints of ashes. Hadn't been lit in some time – worth checking to see if the chimney was blocked.

No smell of alcohol on his breath. Faint aroma of tea, maybe – but if so, it had been some time. Dressed casually – jumper, trousers, shoes with a faint scuff around the toes, just starting to need a decent polish. Nothing to go out in, but he hadn't intended on going anywhere.

Gaze out the window – the _open_ window – to the street. Relative quiet this time of night. The traffic wasn't a steady hum, but the occasional vehicle passing. Long enough gaps for anyone passing to go unnoticed.

"Cameras?"

"We're pulling what footage we can."

The scent of rain coming through the window on the breeze, but no disturbance on or around the sill. No forcing, no marks. No screen either. Just an open window next to a dead man.

This was suffocating.

He needed someone to _really_ talk to.

He needed John.

His brother was watching, but it scarcely mattered. No hope of Mycroft being fooled, and leaving the room wouldn't change that.

_Your assistance would be greatly appreciated. Park Lane. –SH_

* * *

_No, no, no, _John thought. _Not yet._ Fingers clumsy from sleep reached around his mobile to shut off the alarm, but it wasn't the signal to begin his day, it was a text. From Sherlock.

The first he'd received in nine months, and probably exactly the kind he should have expected.

_Your assistance would be greatly appreciated. Park Lane. –SH_

"'Greatly appreciated', even," John muttered to himself as he clicked the mobile off again. The tiny patch of light vanished immediately into the darkness and he curled back under his duvet. As accommodating as Sarah had been about his recent schedule, he had work in the morning, patients who needed him, and no time to run around with a lunatic in the middle of the night.

* * *

There was no response, but Sherlock told himself it made no difference. John hadn't accompanied him on all the cases in the past. No reason he needed to be on this one.

With a puzzle to sort out, it was easy enough – easier, at least – to ignore the small, tight feeling that settled in his stomach, just below his lungs.

Emotions were unnecessary for Ronald Adair – he could neither feel them nor benefit from them. Someone had killed him without emotion either. No violence, nothing taken, no damage to the body other than the single gunshot.

Had to have come through the open window, but the angle was all wrong. Sherlock peered through the lamp-lit darkness to the other side of the street. Quiet houses, quiet shops. All beyond the means of ordinary people – but his shooter was undoubtedly not ordinary. Such a skilled shot at such a distance…

"_Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter… You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service ..."_

Words unintentionally spoken about John over two years ago – the time that had slipped away would have left him reeling internally if the sudden memory hadn't. John, who had shot a stranger without hesitation, without wavering. John, who hadn't answered his phone.

But that was stupid.

It _was_ stupid. But it put him on the right track. Clearly someone with extensive training, so probably military. An experienced sniper – but from whose army and why?

"The window's," a quick check, "six feet off the ground. From a building opposite, he'd want to be above. There are… three– four windows at a good vantage not blocked by the tree outside, but the angle of entry is wrong. The killer had to be _below_ him. Couldn't have been standing just outside – that would leave footprints, and that angle is wrong, too. Other side of the street…"

"In a vehicle?" Mycroft suggested.

"Unless someone's taking to walking around with a sniper rifle and going completely unremarked. Even in the middle of the night, it's too conspicuous. You'll prefer to remain inside, of course."

* * *

Distance helped lighten the weight of Mycroft's gaze, and there was something freeing at being outside, where the breeze refreshed everything, where London moved.

An RMP officer was standing near the gate, watching him. Professional curiosity rather than acrimony and the sensation was so odd that it niggled at Sherlock, distracting him. He refocused, moving slowly along the pavement opposite Adair's home, pacing carefully until he'd defined the vantage point from which the shot could have come. Right view, right angle.

But there were no empty parking spaces. A careful, ungloved hand on the hood of each vehicle gave none of them away – they'd all been parked and unattended for some time. Long enough for the engines to go cold.

A better disguise would be a vehicle that hadn't moved. No windows broken, no locks forced. He couldn't count on anyone noting a car alarm sounding – who even heard that anymore?

But there was something wrong with this, too. Sherlock crouched to the level of where a typical seat would bring him, aware of the Redcap watching him with a wry smile. The height would force the angle to be wrong. He'd have to be higher – or closer. He needed data he didn't have. The speed of the bullet as it entered Adair's skull would give him a better idea of where he needed to be.

Buses passed along this road – but a sniper on a bus would draw comment. Even on the roof of a bus, someone was bound to see him.

Sherlock stopped his slow pacing abruptly, listening to the hints and nudges from his mind.

"Back inside," he said abruptly to his waiting chaperone.

* * *

"A Land Rover."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in silent response.

"Likely one with a roof hatch – less conspicuous than crawling onto the roof. The angle and the distance means the shooter had to be about six and a half feet off the ground. You're looking for a Land Rover."

"There must be a number of vehicles approximately the same height. What makes you so certain it's that one?"

"That confident a shot at that distance? We both know we're looking for a military man, Mycroft. Discretion for the family is a good cover, but that's not really why there are military police and no Met officers. Your shooter was military. If he was from our army – and you think he was – a Land Rover would be his vehicle of choice."


	5. Chapter 5

The sounds of someone else in the house startled John as he stepped off the last creaking stair into the living room. It wasn't loud, but he'd become accustomed to the silence of an empty house without ever intending to. It was comforting to have someone else there, and he tried to ignore the tiny feeling of relief that it was Sherlock.

The idea of letting the ground floor flat to Sherlock had somehow grown on John. It would be simple and easy. That was all it was, he told himself firmly.

_If you let him move back here, you could let Mrs. Hudson's for a higher price,_ his traitor mind chimed in, and John scowled as he finished preparing his tea. That _wouldn't_ be simple and easy.

The hammer of footsteps on the stairs distracted him from his thoughts, and John tensed, waiting for the door to burst open, the moment of silence hanging heavy and taut until it was snapped by a knock. John almost laughed, getting himself under control; if he gave an inch, Sherlock would take a mile, and he'd be living here again before tea time.

_You need your space_, he reminded himself. But for what, he wasn't sure.

"'Morning," John sighed, opening the door.

"Yes, John, good morning," Sherlock replied quickly, and John raised his eyebrows – that hadn't been just a greeting, but Sherlock setting a mental clock to the fact that it _was_ morning. "Do you mind? I need some things."

With a resigned nod, John stepped back – it had been bound to happen some time. Sherlock was back; John couldn't keep all the possessions and rubbish that cluttered up the flat. He tried not to think about what it would look like without all of Sherlock's belongings. He'd been ignoring that reality for months. It was finally upon him, but in a different way than he'd imagined.

"There's been a murder," Sherlock commented, already knee-deep in a stack of papers, digging haphazardly through a box.

"So I gathered from your text," John said, wandering back into the kitchen. He'd need breakfast before work – between patients and dealing with funeral arrangements during whatever breaks he had, it would be a long day. "Nice welcome home for you."

"Not so nice for Adair."

"Who?" John asked, cursing himself inwardly for taking the bait.

"Ronald Adair, son of the Right Honourable Charles Adair, Earl of Something Or Other. Shot by a sniper last night. From a Land Rover."

"From a Land Rover?" John echoed, leaning back to see around the open door. Sherlock was sorting things into piles now – or what counted as 'sorting' for him – and not deigning to look up.

"Mm," the detective agreed. "Shot from the street from a height of about six and a half feet – more likely scenario."

"I see," John sighed. Sherlock paused in the act of tipping something else onto the top of a precarious stack and looked up, expression open, somewhat hesitant, and John chided himself for the moment of pity because he could _see_ the calculation behind the movement.

"I could use your help."

The doctor sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No."

"John–"

"No, Sherlock. No. You can't– I've got work in an hour. I have a funeral to plan. I have responsibilities. I can't just go running off on some case just because you're not dead. You've already figured out _how_ he died anyway. All you have left is why and who. That's your area, not mine."

"Another perspective is always valuable–"

"Then why don't you ask Molly Hooper?" John snapped, patience unravelling, refusing to let himself be swayed by Sherlock's startled expression. "You don't need _me_, you need someone to talk at. Since she helped you fake your own death, I'm sure she'd be better than me at figuring out how someone else managed to pull off a real one."

* * *

John had been wrong, as he so often was, but the frustration about his error was palpable, a bad taste in Sherlock's mouth, an unpleasant tingle in his fingers. He _needed_ an assistant, drowning as he was in the mounds of paperwork, both physical and electronic, that had come from Adair's house. It was like wading in a shallow sea but he could see no shore, just distant horizons at all turns.

The man had known _everyone_. Not surprising, given his family's position and connections, but the deductions that had come so readily, sparking through his mind, had been ground to a halt as Sherlock attempted to find meaning and patterns in the remains of Ronald Adair's life.

Friends, acquaintances, business associates, employees, beneficiaries for charities, distant relations… any one of whom could have a hidden grudge, something not turned up in the discussions with the father and the housekeeper. One in shock and defensive, the other level headed and forthright (Sherlock hadn't expected that – he'd been anticipating hysterics from the woman and had been pleasantly surprised).

If Adair had any vices, they were either legal or not illegal enough to make a difference. Divorced but the ex-wife had remarried and there were no shared children to contend with. Not currently dating anyone, and no whiff of scandal that he was seeing someone he shouldn't have been.

All his records meticulously kept, up-to-date, easily understood. Sherlock combed through spreadsheets and calendars, tapping a pencil against his lips until the dusty-plastic taste of the eraser began to bother him. Tossed it aside, asked John for a pen without thinking, sighed and sat back.

There was that– that _feeling_ again. If he could identify it, it could be categorized and shelved. He had neither the time nor the inclination to indulge this, but it nudged him when he bent back over the latest stack of papers.

With an aggrieved sigh – such a sharp sound in the silence of a flat that still wasn't his – Sherlock relented. Three minutes. He could spare three minutes to this pesky annoyance, then have it done. There were more important things at stake.

"_No there aren't!"_

Sherlock started, scattering papers with an involuntary jerk of his hand, breath caught in his chest at the sing-song sound of Moriarty's voice – but it was a memory, and a false one at that. Not quite something he'd said at the pool. Close enough.

_The work is important_, he told himself firmly, picking up the fallen papers with a steadiness he forced into his movements. So was John, yes. He wouldn't have jumped off a roof otherwise. Wouldn't have spent nine months playing dead, tracking the disintegrating remains of Moriarty's network, following hints and whispers that promised to lead him to the dead man's most trusted associates.

And they were still out there. Sherlock had names, but nothing else.

He was alive, back in London, putting John in the crosshairs again. No one knew – oh, he'd been seen, but those he was looking for didn't know to look for him, and Mycroft _would_ take care of CCTV footage. John knew. Lestrade knew. He suspected his brother's involvement there; thinking of the DI– sergeant made the bruise and the cut on his cheek hurt anew.

Mycroft had probably been hoping for that reaction.

John was under surveillance – he obviously hadn't caught on, but Sherlock had spotted them immediately. They would have been planted soon after his supposed suicide. Just in case. Mycroft was infuriating, but he was also thorough. Not a movement unplanned, not a response unanticipated.

John was protected. Ronald Adair had not been so lucky.

* * *

A list of names and figures, but useless because the names were nothing than initials. The occasional title – 'Dr.' the most common – but nothing to help pin down identities. No hints as to what the list was for, if the money was paid or owed or donated. No indication as to when it had been begun – it could have been written by hand then transferred to computer much later, copied and pasted from an older document, leaving the "created on" date suspect and likely useless.

The columns were beginning to swim in front of his eyes. He needed _something_ – habits formed in a year and a half with John had strangely not been obliterated in nine months. His body had more of a say now, and Sherlock found himself craving tea. He hadn't picked up milk – hadn't even thought of it – and had convinced himself it would be permissible to go into John's under the guise of getting more of his things when a single line caught his eye.

Col. S. M.

Without the title, without the Land Rover and the sniper rifle, without the name Sherlock had, it would have meant nothing.

He was on the street and hailing a taxi before the echoes of the flat door slamming had the time to fade.

* * *

Mycroft's hired eyes were on him; Sherlock could _feel_ one of them following him, but didn't dare draw attention to it. Collar up and head down, he hurried into the surgery, flashing the stolen badge he'd had the foresight to take that morning along with the other things. John's name brought him instructions on where to go; Sherlock gave a cursory knock on the door before shoving it open, startling John into looking away from his monitor, eyes wide.

The moment of surprised passed, a sigh ghosted from the doctor's lips.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock demanded in the instant John was drawing a breath to reprimand him. The question derailed John long enough for the irritation to be replaced with surprise again, a hint of confusion in his blue eyes.

"It's a surgery in London, Sherlock. Not a field hospital. Trust me, the days here aren't that exciting."

"No unusual patients? No one belligerent or suspicious?"

"Um– no," John managed, then gave his head a shake. "What's this about anyway? You might as well come in."

The door clicked shut behind him; John waved Sherlock into a seat but the detective refused, pacing the room carefully, long and nimble fingers darting over surfaces in search of bugs or cameras.

"You shouldn't bother. Mycroft has someone come in twice a week to do that."

Sherlock paused, turned back slowly.

"And you let him?"

"Do you think it'd stop him if I didn't?" John asked with a shrug. "At least this way I know about it. Listen, Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Ronald Adair knew Sebastian Moran."

John paused, giving him a careful, questioning look.

"Good for him," he finally sighed.

"_Colonel_ Sebastian Moran."

"Sherlock, as shocking as this might be, just because I was in the army doesn't mean I knew everyone else who was in the army."

"Land Rover, sniper shot, army colonel," Sherlock snapped.

"Fine, so you know who killed him. Have the redcaps round him up, he'll be tried or court martialed or Mycroft will just make him disappear. Did you really need to burst in here to tell me this? A text would have been enough."

"Jim Moriarty's right hand man."

"_What?_"

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, _formerly_ of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, discharged in 2002, although the circumstances revolving around that are so classified even Mycroft can't access them, which means the documents have likely been destroyed or their was no official documentation. Special forces, extensive sniper training. One of the best, apparently. And found his way into Moriarty's employ – I can't even say for certain if it was before or after his discharge."

"That's who you're looking for," John said.

"The man ordered to kill _you_ if I didn't kill myself," Sherlock replied. The look of shock surprised him – Mycroft had told John about this. Why should he be surprised? "Did you think it was a convenient excuse, John? Your death or mine."

"What does Adair have to do with it?"

"I don't–"

The knock on the door was like the shot Sherlock had been dreading. All of those autonomic responses he couldn't control: adrenaline increasing the heart rate, speeding up his breathing, dilating his pupils.

"John?"

A woman's voice – familiar judging by the relaxation of John's expression, the fondness that crept into his eyes. A warning look aimed Sherlock's way before John responded with:

"Come in."

Female, approximately thirty-eight, average height, average weight, hair neatly done, business attire but a touch on the casual side, high heels in need of a bit of polish – she'd walked here but from somewhere close – unpainted nails, minimal makeup. Carrying a folded paper bag in one hand, hand bag slung over the opposite shoulder. The size, shape, and smell coming from the bag indicated cooking – home cooking, not take away.

"Oh, sorry," she said (London accent, reasonably well educated). "I didn't know you were with someone."

"It's all right, Mary," John sighed. "Come in. This is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Mary Morstan."

* * *

"The prodigal flatmate," Mary commented wryly, earning a scowl from Sherlock as John hid a smile behind a hand. "Sorry to have interrupted."

"Feel free to stop doing so," Sherlock snapped. Mary raised her eyebrows at him and John repressed a roll of his eyes. Sherlock could manage to pack offended and petulant into a single sentence. _Sulking_ and_ superior. Some things don't change,_ he thought.

"You're quite the charmer, aren't you?" Mary asked, a faint light dancing in her dark eyes. "John, I thought you might have a busy day – first day back and all – so I've made you lunch."

It smelled divine – he'd been hoping it was for him the moment she'd walked in. It would certainly beat the takeaway sandwich he'd grabbed from Speedy's that morning.

"And I spoke with my florist friend; the flowers for the funeral are all arranged. Harry's taking care of some of the legal details, but she says it's nothing serious, just fiddly."

"Mary, you are a life saver."

"True," she laughed, handing him the bag and leaning over to give him a kiss on the cheek. "See you tonight."

John ignored the glower Sherlock shot after her and unpacked the bag, taking a moment to inhale deeply and savour the scents. Half of him entertained the idea of hiring Mary as a personal cook, the other half tried to figure out how to get Sherlock out of his office so he could eat in peace.

"Who is she?" Sherlock demanded. John rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, first of all, don't tell me you didn't deduce her life's history by the colour of her handbag. Second of all, you read the blog. You _know_ who she is." He paused, unsurprised to find himself giving in to Sherlock's expectant expression. "Harry's girlfriend. _Not_ mine."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"Not my area, as I've said."

"No kidding," John muttered.

"When did she and Harry begin seeing each other?" Sherlock asked with a completely feigned non-interest .

"About seven months ago. I realize–"

"Yet she's cooking for you."

"And she probably made something for Harry as well. She likes to cook, Sherlock. Some people have hobbies that don't include their work. Or playing the violin at all hours of the day. Or completely ignoring the lives of other people."

"It's a touch domestic, don't you think?"

"How awful of us to consider each other family," John agreed.

"An unnecessary gesture of affection," Sherlock grouched.

"I wouldn't talk if I were you," John replied. "All you've ever made me is poisoned coffee."


	6. Chapter 6

"Absolutely not."

"You can't–"

"Yes, Sherlock, I can. It's one thing to call you into the crime scene, it's another altogether to have you chase down Colonel Moran – _particularly_ given his connection to James Moriarty. As far as we can determine, Moran doesn't know you're alive and it's in your best interests – in _everyone's_ best interests – to keep it that way."

"And who will you send after him, Mycroft? Your secret service? Your military police? We both know–"

"I will not send my own brother as bait for a revenge-addled madman!"

"Unlike last time."

Mycroft drew a deep breath, retorts swallowed, flashing unspoken through his eyes.

"I didn't send you," he said. "You sent yourself."

"Part of the deal _we_ negotiated," Sherlock retorted.

"Then consider this part of it as well," Mycroft snapped. "We had the opportunity to stop Moriarty – and you _were_ our best hope of doing so. Moran is a different animal, Sherlock. He doesn't want to play. He isn't bored. He's just murdered a man in the dead of night with enough skill that he wasn't even caught on any of the CCTV cameras in the area."

"Precisely why I–"

"_Do you understand this is not about you?_" The sudden vehemence stopped Sherlock cold, tightened something in his lungs, but he had no chance to retort before his brother continued, more calmly: "You're home, Sherlock. Perhaps these aren't the circumstances in which you wanted to return, but you're here. We have more than just a name now. Leave this to us. Don't undo the work you've spent the last nine months trying to accomplish."

"What would you like me to do, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped. "Go home, put my feet up?"

"There will be other cases," Mycroft sighed. "In fact, I'm fairly certain we have a number of older ones that could benefit from your expertise. But in the meantime, yes. Go home. Feel free not to put your feet up – I understand John means to clean out the ground floor flat where you've been living. I'll arrange an account for furniture and whatever else you think you might need. You and John will be protected, Sherlock, but my influence only extends so far."

Mycroft ignored his derisive snort, and the silent dismissal was more than loud enough. Sherlock spun on his heel, the soles of his shoes clicking over the marble of hallowed halls, and went to test precisely the limits of that influence.

* * *

There was a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table.

John paused in the doorway, listening carefully to the sounds of his flat. It was quiet, but not abnormally so – although the house seemed suspiciously silent. There was a dull amazement that he could still pick up on that after so long, smothered by a flash of irritation.

Sherlock had been in his flat.

Of course, he'd probably construed the invitation to come in that morning as permission to come and go as he pleased, and John entertained the idea of changing the locks before realizing it didn't matter. Locks were a minor inconvenience to Sherlock, who had a tendency to destroy them if he found them too troublesome.

The tea _was_ good, though. John sipped it gingerly at first, ready for an overload of sugar, or no sugar at all, or maybe salt in place of the sugar. But it was perfect – the right temperature, the right amount of milk, the right sweetness.

He wondered if it was reading too much into it to see it as an apology of sorts.

The polite thing to do would be to go downstairs and say thanks. Armed with the shield of social niceties – never mind that Sherlock didn't care about them – John padded down the steps and eased the door to the A flat open after a knock got him no response.

Sherlock was there, alone, sat in a chair, blank gaze in front of him. Hands pressed together, index fingers against his lips. Black suit, perfectly fitted for his now-thinner frame. Blue shirt, no tie. Statue-still, betraying no hints he was aware of John's presence.

"Mycroft's taken me off the case," he said.

"Has he?"

"Ridiculous, of course. No one is better suited to solve it."

"Of course not," John agreed. "Thanks for the tea."

"Simple chemistry. Now you can't say I've never made you anything palatable. You realize Mycroft's been having you followed."

"Um– no," John managed, startled by the non-sequitur. "But it doesn't surprise me."

"You should be more observant, John."

"Thanks," John sighed. "I'll take that under advisement. What are you planning on doing?"

"We."

"What?"

"What are _we_ planning on doing, John."

"Oh, no," John said, pushing himself away from the wall. "There is no 'we', Sherlock. You–"

"Because you're angry with me for saving your life? Disappointed that I didn't force you into the impossible situation of lying to everyone you knew? Betrayed by the fact that I protected you from a second – and fatal – bullet?"

"Because you made me think–"

"Because I made you _live_," Sherlock snapped, pushing himself to his feet. "'Please, god, let me live'. Were those not your words, John, your final words? What _would_ have been your final words. There is no god, John, but you lived. Twice."

"It isn't that simple!"

"And what would you have done to make it simpler, John? How would you have worked it out? How would you have done better than two geniuses, one with the resources of the entire British government at his disposal? Tell me, how would you have improved upon that?"

"I'm not doing this," John retorted, turning away with a shake of his head.

"What _will_ you do?"

"What?" John asked before he could stop himself.

"What will you do?" Sherlock repeated. "Go to work each morning, see your patients with their headaches and sprains and endless complaints, come home to a quiet tea, repeat the same thing the next day? And the next? The day after that? Have you finally had enough for one lifetime, John?"

"I'm going upstairs," John said firmly.

"Moran is out there, John. He doesn't know I am. _We_ can do this."

"I have plans, Sherlock," John sighed, turning back. "I have a life. And it's not this. It's just– not this anymore."

He turned away again, ignoring the heavy, weighted feeling of the movement, and left Sherlock in Mrs. Hudson's old flat to head back up to the safety and isolation of his own.

* * *

Taking the tube gave John an excuse for a short walk as he made his way from the station to Harry's flat. The fresh air helped, even if it the wind had a bitter bite to it. It seemed to clear his head, shaking away the stuffy feeling the house – and even his flat – had taken on.

His conversation with Sherlock had left him feeling unsettled, almost as if he had an itch he couldn't scratch. Try as he might, John hadn't been able to shake the feeling. The entire situation was wrong. Mrs. Hudson gone. Sherlock taking her place.

Baker Street felt less like home than it had after Sherlock's "death". Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, John tried to ignore the realization that even though Sherlock was back, he wasn't really home.

_Home_ wasn't the A flat.

_Too bad_, he told himself resolutely as he climbed the stairs to Harry's flat and knocked on the door. _He made his choice._

His sister greeted him with a quick kiss on the cheek, and the aroma of a homemade meal, freshly prepared, helped chase away some of his unease. Inside the flat it was warm and gently lit, a welcome change from the chilly evening air. Harry had moved shortly before meeting Mary, wanting a fresh start from old habits. She'd made an effort to make this a home where she felt safe and which she valued.

Mary smiled at him from the kitchen, winking when his stomach growled audibly. She'd timed it perfectly – she always did – and it was a matter of a few minutes before they were at the table, helping themselves, an easy conversation flowing between them.

Harry didn't mention Mrs. Hudson – or Sherlock. Mary steered clear of both subjects as well; John had no idea if they'd agreed upon it beforehand but didn't care. It was a welcome relief to focus on normal, everyday things.

For a little while anyway.

John wasn't immediately aware when his mind began to drift away, still half focused on the conversation but turning part of his concentration to the small questions that began to badger him.

Why had Ronald Adair been shot? Why from a Land Rover? (And what were the logistics of that? Sherlock hadn't explained – had Adair been on the street at night?) How long had Mycroft known about Sebastian Moran? Longer than Sherlock had, John suspected. He'd had Moriarty detained after all.

He swallowed down the anger at that – all they would really have had to do was keep the madman locked up. Surely Mycroft would have other means of dismantling a criminal empire?

What would Sherlock do now? Well that was silly – of course he'd continue with the case. Without his brother's permission, without John's help. He'd certainly managed fine on his own before.

If 'fine' meant nearly getting himself killed for a game, John reminded himself. Several times.

_But is this a game?_ John asked himself as he nodded along to Mary's description of a holiday she and Harry were planning on taking that summer – their first together. A trip to Paris. Neither had ever been, and Harry was joking about the romantic predictability of it, but she looked happy. They both did.

What if it wasn't a game? Sherlock would treat it that way. He always did on some level. A puzzle to be solved – but John had friends in the special forces, had known trained snipers. _That_ wasn't a game. That was understanding angles and velocities and a dozen other variables. All cold calculation.

Of course the snipers he'd known had been normal men once the uniform had come off – not trigger happy assassins. What was Moran? Someone must have a sense of that. Sociopath? Psychopath? Had he been hired to kill Adair?

If not, why had he done it?

The question planted a seed of worry in John's stomach. Sherlock would throw himself into the case with a passion – had he ever come up against someone who was killing with a detached purpose?

But what if he wasn't?

And what would happen when Moran learned Sherlock was alive?

_Rache_.

John was jarred by the sudden memory of the word – an unfinished name, as it happened. But the German for 'revenge', and it struck him suddenly that Sherlock was putting himself in the path of a trained sniper-turned-assassin whose employer he had killed. Yes, granted Sherlock hadn't pulled the trigger, but would that detail matter? Moriarty was dead, Sherlock had been there.

Moriarty had died for his game – but what if Moran wasn't interested in that?

He'd get himself killed.

Again.

"John?" Harry asked when he stood up abruptly, his fork clattering against the porcelain of his plate.

He couldn't go through that again. Especially not if it were real this time.

"Sorry, Harry, Mary. There's something I need to do."

* * *

_Please be there, please be there, please be there_. The mantra looped on a continuous track in his mind as John fumbled with the key in the lock. He shouldn't have deleted that text – he'd tried Sherlock's old number only to have a teenage girl answer it, and now he was without the new one. Sherlock could be anywhere, out roaming the streets, schmoozing at some club for information, breaking into a private home…

Lying dead in a gutter.

The memory of blood and pale, vacant eyes was forced away even as the door was pushed open and John clattered inside.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, letting it slam shut behind. "Sherlock!"

The sound of the ground floor flat's door opening brought a wave of relief so strong it was almost dizzying.

_Not dead yet,_ John told himself with grim satisfaction.

"We can't work this Sunday," he said before Sherlock could speak. "That's non-negotiable. Understood?" A flicker of surprise was followed by a brief nod. "Good," John said, rubbing his hands together. "Where do we start?"


	7. Chapter 7

"Moran was here in June, and we know he was here last night. It's not unreasonable to assume that he's still in the city. London was Moriarty's base – it's likely Moran's as well."

"If I were a criminal madman, I'd hire an army-trained sniper as a bodyguard, too," John mused, casting an expert eye around Mrs. Hudson's– Sherlock's flat. She'd been gone such a short time – less than forty-eight hours – but it didn't feel like her home anymore. Sherlock had overrun it.

Papers and pencils were scattered everywhere. A map of the city tacked to the wall was already partially hidden by his scrawling handwriting. A teacup – one of Mrs. Hudson's best china – sat forgotten on the mantle, with half a cup of cold tea still in it. The air tasted of expectancy, of crackling energy, rather than a calm warmth.

"No one better," Sherlock agreed. "I'd like your opinion on his service records, particularly the psychiatric evaluations. There's no outright diagnosis of psychopathy but there are a number of 'incidents' that suggest it. Nothing that couldn't be explained away by circumstance, but they do seem to follow him around… And he was moved around with more frequency than I'd expect even for a military man. It seems his brilliance as a marksman– John?"

His name startled him from the tide of words he had barely heard, and he managed a jerky nod, buying time to run through Sherlock's brief monologue.

"I've seen that before," he said before the detective could ask what the problem was. The question was there, right on the tip of Sherlock's tongue – John could _see_ it, and he knew he couldn't hear it. Not right here. Not right now.

He needed something to ground him to the real world.

A psychopathic former army sniper ought to do.

"It's hard to make a case on rumours and coincidences – even if they aren't coincidences – men like him get shunted around, usually in the hopes that they're a problem someone else can fix."

"And someone did," Sherlock mused, attention returned to the case, giving John the space to exhale a slow breath. "The wrong man, unfortunately."

"Moran probably didn't think so," John replied.

"Good point," Sherlock agreed. "That tendency toward unchecked violence isn't generally accepted in the military – who better than to put all of his talents to good use than Moriarty?"

"The army was probably happy to be rid of him. Probably didn't ask too many questions. I've met a few men like that, Sherlock. Psych evaluations aren't a problem for them. Where are the records?"

Sherlock folded himself from standing to seated in that effortless way John still didn't think someone his height should be able to manage and bent over his laptop, fingers clicking rapidly over the keys. The computer was spun toward him, lifted and presented like a prize.

"It's just a game," Sherlock said. "A test in which all the correct answers are known but _selecting_ all the right ones draws suspicion. There's a strategy to which ones need to be answered incorrectly – and how much is necessary to create the illusion of a well-rounded personality, complete with rough edges, insecurities, and minor bad habits."

The stark black-on-white of the words on the monitor were lost to John as he ran through Sherlock's words in his head. Carefully. Picking them apart, one by one, looking for markers.

"You've done it before," he said. It wasn't a question. He knew.

And he knew Sherlock had phrased it that way for him to catch it.

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "It was a challenge – how much could I get away with? A test of sorts – for them."

"That's how people like Moran see it," John said, surprised at how difficult it was to keep his voice level, at the sharp note of heated anger that slipped into his tone.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. Watching him. Almost expectantly.

Another deep breath and a decision – _no_ he wasn't going to go down that path. He knew Sherlock. It was suddenly not surprising that Sherlock had played the psych tests. Of course he had. Like Moran had. Like Moriarty probably had as well.

John was a doctor. He knew how to read all the little signs that signalled small but significant differences.

And Sherlock was his friend.

_Friend_. It jarred him to hear himself use the word, even if only internally. It felt like a decision, like closing a door on the past he hadn't wanted open anyway.

"Moriarty was probably the perfect boss," John said, passing the laptop back. "But Moran's got to earn a living now that his boss is dead. You said this was Moriarty's base – Moran would have contacts here, too, right?"

"Highly likely," Sherlock agreed.

"Then people here know him, and those people know other people. I may never have met Moran, but I still have a lot of contacts of my own. And I have an idea."

* * *

Sherlock had insisted on walking in that way of his that steamrolled right over any objections and found John on the pavement, moving quickly to keep up. He could have demanded they slow down but he was enjoying the pace – the speed, the sense of possibility, the surge of _purpose_.

Sherlock was back. Alive.

So was he.

It felt good – amazing. They had a case. A mystery. An _adventure_. He could feel his nerves tingling with energy, masking any twinges in his not-really-bad leg, feel the _life_ surging through his veins and blazing along the synapses in his brain. The past nine months seemed covered in fog, shadowed by grief, dulled by a slow, predictable routine.

John had forgotten what it was like to want the challenge and the risk – had pushed it all down so far and so deliberately that it had become normal not to think of it. Getting it back was like being allowed to breathe again, and he sucked in a deep breath, trying to swallow the laughter that bubbled up in his chest.

Sherlock folded to the ground before John had even processed the movement. Doctor's instincts kicked in without waiting for the rest of him to catch up; he doubled back and crouched fast, one hand on Sherlock's upper back, the other tilting his head up to search his eyes. Glassy, unfocused, face pale even for him.

"I'm all right," Sherlock murmured.

"No you're bloody not," John shot back, pushing Sherlock's head between his knees, keeping it there with his forearm and hand. Two fingers wrapped around Sherlock's wrist; the detective's pulse was jack-hammering under his touch.

John gave himself the luxury of half a moment to curse his own stupidity – Sherlock probably hadn't eaten at all after Lestrade had concussed him, and had thrown himself into this bloody case. If John had been paying more attention, he'd have seen the signs before they'd even left Baker Street.

"We're going home," he said firmly.

"No," Sherlock replied, shaking his head under John's hand.

"Doctor's orders. You have a concussion–"

"Which is mild at best. You're going to tell me I need to be off my feet and eat something. I can do both those things at the pub. We need to _act_, John. Now. While Moran might still be in the city."

"Sherlock–"

"John."

With a quick twist of his wrist, Sherlock had snagged John's between his long fingers, raising his head enough to meet John's eyes. John relented with a sigh.

"Fine," he agreed. "But afterwards, we're going home and _you_ are going to get at least seven hours of sleep. _At least_, Sherlock. I'd be happier with nine."

The unprotesting nod worried him slightly, but John let it pass in favour of getting what he wanted. He eased Sherlock to his feet and hailed a cab to take them the rest of the way.

* * *

The pub was precisely the sort of place Sherlock had envisioned for John – warmly lit, honey oak tables clean but with scratched surfaces, a clientele that seemed as comfortable here as they were in their own homes, no one under thirty, no one drinking alone. It whiffed of camaraderie underneath the more pervasive smells of beer and fried food. There were no strangers here.

Apart from him.

John's friend was enough of a shock to derail Sherlock's immediate dislike of the atmosphere, even if only temporarily. He rarely met or dealt with people taller than himself and on the occasions he did, he had mastered the trick of using his intellect to make him seem the bigger man.

There was no question that wouldn't work now.

John's friend – Dave Forsyth, as John introduced him – had two inches on Sherlock and at least a hundred pounds, almost all of it muscle. Affable smile growing into a grin when he shook Sherlock's hand, waving them into the booth he'd managed to secure – here was a man who never had to resort to violence, never had to use his height deliberately to get what he wanted.

Listening would be the better tactic. Let John do the talking. Forsyth would respond well to a friend.

There was that niggling feeling again – Sherlock had felt it while listening to John on the phone, making plans to meet up at this ghastly pub. A moment in which John had turned away from him slightly, smiling as he responded to a one-sided conversation. An easy companionability about the way he interjected, about the laughter in his tone. References to people Sherlock didn't know, whose names he was certain he'd never heard before.

Halfway around the world, tracking elusive shadows and rumours. Working on his own, the distant promise of _home_ holding him up, keeping him going. He'd burned his bridges to his past, isolating himself out of necessity. Wrapping _alone_ so tightly around himself that it had become as normal as breathing, but waiting for the moment when he would shed it again, step back into a life to which he'd become accustomed.

John had disdained that isolation altogether, letting it go long before he should have, vaulting back into a world that had once been his, full of people who had worn the same uniform and shared similar experiences.

It was perfectly reasonable that John should want to interact with them, Sherlock told himself firmly. It was currently serving a purpose and if it became inconvenient, John could be encouraged to manage his time in more profitable ways.

Sherlock was as certain of that as he was in his refusal to eat any of the vile food the waitress – single mother, working two jobs, smoked heavily to deal with the stress but tried to hide it – placed in front of him. Whatever lingering, petty doubts remained could safely be ignored. Small talk was happening – there seemed to be no way to avoid it – but John was also steering the conversation around toward the important matters.

"Truth is, I have a name, someone I'm hoping you met."

"He in trouble?" Forsyth asked.

"Causing trouble for others," John replied.

"Bad apple?" John nodded, and Forsyth took a pensive swig of his beer. "Before or after?"

"Both. He's been out since oh-two but he's found some demand for his skills. Special Ops sniper. Colonel Sebastian Moran."

Forsyth exhaled hard; Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but any real hope vanished even before he spoke again, the response written clearly in his features.

"I've heard once or twice."

"Know him?" John asked.

"More know of him – never ran into him overseas, but you hear stories. Easy to start paying attention when the same name keeps coming up… We were in Afghanistan at the same time, thank God not on the same base. I had a lieutenant in my unit then – Ben Masters. He'd run into Moran once. Never said much about it, but he had too much to drink one night. Didn't say what Moran did, just said that some men deserved no more than a single bullet."

"Do you know where he is? Masters I mean."

"Last I heard, he was holed up in Birmingham. Took a bullet, just like you, but to the leg. That was a couple years ago, though. But Kev would know, I bet. They served together in Iraq. Kept in touch, I think. Give him a ring. He was just saying he's been meaning to call you."

* * *

"It seems I've been misinformed."

"What?" John asked, fishing for his keys in the weak light from the light over the door.

"Just because you were in the army doesn't mean you know everyone else who was?" Sherlock enquired, arching an eyebrow when John shot him a look. He didn't like the pallor of Sherlock's skin, the darkening circles beneath his eyes.

"A few people is not 'everyone else'," he sighed. "You didn't eat your fish and chips."

"I was under the impression you wanted me to eat food. That didn't qualify."

John's response was lost when Sherlock closed his eyes, holding up a hand for balance – the doctor recognized an attempt to displace dizziness when he saw it, and the fact that Sherlock couldn't hide it meant it was worse than it looked. He slung an arm over his shoulders, murmuring encouragements as he guided them both into the house.

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped.

"Yes, right, that's why you've got both me and the wall holding you up," John agreed. "Let's go. One step at a time."

This drew no argument or even sarcastic comment, and John swallowed on the sudden increasing worry – Sherlock was probably just getting what he wanted, being allowed back upstairs. It took them a few minutes, but John had Sherlock lying on the sofa without any real protest.

"Shoes," he ordered, rolling his eyes when Sherlock lifted his feet but did nothing else. John unlaced them and dropped them to the side; Sherlock draped an arm over his eyes.

"If Moran–"

"Shut up."

A flicker of surprise and Sherlock pulled his arm away, grey eyes narrowed.

"No deducing, no monologuing, no case talk at all. You need food, water, and sleep. In that order. Stay here, _don't_ bloody move."

He vanished into the kitchen, keeping a sharp ear opening, returning a few minutes later to find – to his surprise – that Sherlock had actually obeyed him. The detective accepted the toast and glass of water almost sheepishly, murmuring a thanks. John allowed him to sit up enough to eat comfortably, taking the free space on the end of the sofa, and watching Sherlock pointedly until the last of the meagre meal had been consumed.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded when Sherlock tried to push himself up onto obviously unsteady legs.

"You ordered me to sleep," the detective replied, a caustic note in his tone. "My flat _is_ downstairs."

"You need to really sleep, Sherlock, not read files and call it rest because you're sitting down. I can't keep an eye on you if you're downstairs."

"Bit difficult for you then," Sherlock agreed.

"Which is why," John started, slinging Sherlock's arm over his shoulders again, ignoring the impatient grumbling as he did so, "you'll be sleeping in your old bed tonight and I'll be on the sofa."


	8. Chapter 8

The dull warning throb in his shoulder wasn't what woke him, although it flared as John propped himself up, blinking blearily and wondering momentarily why he was asleep on his sofa. A faint sound from Sherlock's old bedroom brought the memories rushing back, and he flopped down on the cushions again, ready to let sleep reclaim him. He'd just closed his eyes when the sound became defined, his name spoken in a low moan.

John's eyes shot open wide, the instinct to be embarrassed catching in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. It was a long moment before he realized that the voice had held an undercurrent of fear – and those quiet noises were not what he'd first thought.

Kicking the blankets aside, he hurried toward Sherlock's bedroom and eased the door open gently.

* * *

_His legs were moving but he wasn't, steps never carrying him forward, corridors stretching into endless shadow. Distant sounds of doors opening, faint creaks, but he could see no one, no evidence that he wasn't alone, except for the hard breathing on the other end of the line._

"_Keep talking."_

"_Sherlock, please. It's here."_

"_John, keep talking. Tell me what you see."_

_He saw nothing – nothing that could give him a sense of where he was. The walls plain white, the doors unnumbered, the unremarkable brush of stainless steel. No give or pull when he tired them, no answer to his hammering fist._

"_John, I'll find you. Keep talking."_

"_I can see him, Sherlock. He's here."_

"_John–"_

"_Sherlock."_

_It was John's voice, so close he could reach out and should have been able to touch him but there was no one in the endless corridor and now he was without his phone, without anything–_

"_Sherlock, can you hear me?"_

"_John? Where are you?"_

"_I'm right here." A hand in his, squeezing lightly and _Sherlock snapped his eyes open, engulfed by darkness, by distantly familiar sensations rushing to identify themselves.

"I'm right here, you're all right." John's voice – and figure dimly outlined by whatever pale light was filtering in through the open door. Hand in Sherlock's – he was gripping hard and couldn't quite convince unwilling fingers to loosen even as his hammering heart began to slow.

"You were having a nightmare." Obvious, no need to point it out, why come in and wake him up otherwise, particularly since John had been the one so insistent on sleep. He passed a hand over his eyes, tightened his grip on John's, pleased at the gesture returned.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No." He did not. "If I recall, you ordered me to sleep."

"I'll be in the living room if you need me." Reassurance in John's voice as he stood, fingers curling around Sherlock's shoulder in a brief, reassuring squeeze. The warmth of it lingered even after the door was eased shut, leaving him in peaceful, familiar darkness.

* * *

There was a breakfast the next morning of tea, eggs, and toast with jam. Sherlock ate it all, albeit slowly, under John's watchful eye. The meal was followed by an apparently compulsory medical examination, although John's glares were not serious enough to warrant actual concern about his physical state.

"We need to see Lestrade."

"I doubt he'll want to see you," John sighed from the kitchen as he finished the last of the washing up.

"Hardly a social call, John. Capturing Adair's murderer is at stake."

"You told me the Met weren't involved," John replied. "Besides, Lestrade isn't in homicide anymore."

"Neither of which is relevant," Sherlock replied, ignoring the roll of the eyes aimed his way. "This case _is_ within the Met's purview, and they should be the ones investigating it. Police officers gossip; they'll know about it by now. They may have removed Lestrade from his former post, but that won't have stopped him paying attention to the cases."

"And if he won't talk to you?"

"He'll talk to _you_," Sherlock replied.

"Oh I see. When you said 'we need to see Lestrade', you really meant '_you_ need to see Lestrade'. What are you going to do? Lurk in the bushes?"

"Lurk in the bushes?" Sherlock demanded, but John was smiling, the corners of his lips turning up despite his obvious attempts not to let them. "Lurk in the bushes," Sherlock repeated as a mutter, setting his tea mug aside with a deliberate click. "I'll be devising a way to gain access to Adair's social club."

"Oh lord, you're not going to tell me he's a Diogenes member, are you?"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "Too social a man for that, and he found solitude in his own home when he needed it."

"Where he was shot," John said.

"Where he was shot," Sherlock agreed.

"Not very restful if you ask me. No– no off colour jokes about the silence of the grave, thank you very much." The sound of his phone distracted him, and John fished it from his jeans pocket, frowning at the screen.

"Hello? Yes, this is John Watson." He sat at the conjoined desks again, opposite Sherlock, gaze lost in the middle distance. "Yes, yes all right. I will. Thank you."

A question died on Sherlock's tongue when John rung off; the sombre silence, the way John pressed his phone against his lips as if to contain something – grief, sadness – the shuttered shadows in his expression. They were answer enough.

"I have to be there by nine tomorrow morning," he said. "In case there's any last minute things to take care of."

"Then we'll be there by nine," Sherlock agreed. Surprise flickered through John's blue eyes, a moment of shock that was short lived, displaced by a firm resolve.

"Right. Well." He rose, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Sitting around here won't catch Moran, will it? Let's go."

* * *

John went armed with coffee and pastries – he had no idea what kind of mood Lestrade would be in, but there were ways of winning him over.

Chiswick was far enough that John could convince himself to take a cab; as the street signs and pedestrians slid by outside the windows, it felt suddenly exhilarating to be here again, in the back of a taxi on the way to track down a killer. His eyes flickered to the rooftops of buildings as he passed them by, senses honed by the military looking for anything out of place, any hint that he was being watched in return.

The CCTV cameras outside the station certainly noted his arrival, as did a few police officers, but John could feel their gaze on the food rather than on him. The path to Lestrade's desk was no longer a familiar one, and gone was the relative splendour of New Scotland Yard. No private office, no sense of being right in the thick of things.

John didn't like admitting – even to himself – that this was the reason he hadn't seen Lestrade as much as he should have. The demotion must have chafed more than just his pride – _everyone_ here knew who he was and what had happened.

John had taken refuge in people he'd known before Sherlock, in women he'd met in passing.

He had no idea what Lestrade had done to deal with the blows. Not really.

"The inestimable Doctor Watson, isn't it?" a friendly female voice greeted.

"Sergeant Hassard. Good to see you."

"You too," she replied, a smile brightening her dark eyes. "You should come around here more often, Doctor. Especially if you're bringing coffee."

"And a chocolate croissant – your favourite, if I remember right."

"A man after my own heart."

"Sergeant, if I thought I stood half a chance…"

"Keep this up and you never know your luck," she replied with a wink, liberating a cup of coffee and the croissant. "But you're not here for me. Looking for Greg?"

"He here?"

"Debriefing," she replied, nodding to the desk opposite hers. The picture of Lestrade and his two boys was an older one, but the frame was lovingly dusted, even if the rest of the desk was a mess of papers, pens, and a coffee cup in need of a wash. "He shouldn't be long. What brings you by?"

"Bit of an apology," John shrugged, nodding at the doughnut box.

"Oh, so you're the reason he's in such a piss-poor mood," Hassard commented, arching an eyebrow.

"Not exactly, but–"

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

John raised his eyes and Hassard swivelled slightly in her chair; Lestrade was striding toward them, dark eyes glinting angrily. It wasn't the reaction he was hoping for, but it could have been worse.

"I need your help, Greg."

"You do or _he_ does?"

"Both of us," John sighed, giving his head a quick shake as Lestrade drew a breath to continue his tirade. "It's about Ronald Adair."

* * *

John tried to ignore the ominous _click_ as the door to the interrogation room snapped shut behind them. Lestrade had accepted the coffee and doughnut with bad grace, but was sipping it, giving John an expectant glare.

"What the hell do you know about Ronald Adair?" he demanded as John settled into one of the uncomfortable metal frame chairs.

"Only what Sherlock's told me, but that's probably more than you."

"Then why are you here?"

"For your help," John said simply.

"The Redcaps have got this locked up, and I don't do homicides anymore," Lestrade snapped. "You tell him if he wants help, he can find some other sucker. I'm done, John. I'm not taking anymore hits, not for him."

"What if I told you the man who murdered him was Jim Moriarty's right hand man?"

* * *

The relief at having Lestrade back on their side was marred with guilt – John knew he'd played the sergeant the same way Sherlock had played him. _Moriarty_ was a name guaranteed to get Lestrade's attention, and they needed someone on the force – someone they could trust.

He hoped like hell it would be worth it.

"Oh, John, good," Sherlock said, coming out of the ground floor flat when John closed the front door behind him – the cynical part of him wondered if Sherlock had been waiting and planning that moment. The detective straightened the cuffs of what was obviously a new suit, black, perfectly fitted for him. The black shirt underneath was offset by subtle, dark red stripes, only enough to give it some sombre colour.

"I've laid out some clothing for you upstairs. Jumpers won't do tonight, I'm afraid. Membership to Adair's club isn't cheap, and you'll need to dress the part."

"And you went shopping for yourself," John noted wryly. Sherlock's sudden hesitation stirred a new unease in John. A slight tightening of the detective's lips, a dulling of the light in his grey eyes, and John knew his mistake before Sherlock voiced it.

"It's for tomorrow."

He could turn and leave, he could take the stairs to his flat and shut the door, he could even close his eyes – anything for a small escape from the changed tone in Sherlock's voice, from the reminder, from the reality.

John forced himself to stay where he was.

"It's good," he made himself say. "Suits you."

"I'll need you to take care of the women tonight," Sherlock said as if the taut moment had never happened, but John could still see it lingering in the detective's expression. "See what you can find out from them. Buy drinks, pay compliments, that sort of thing."

"I know how to chat up a woman, Sherlock," John replied, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, you're very good at that," Sherlock said, and John opened his mouth to protest, but the remark sounded off-the-cuff, almost as if Sherlock hadn't really heard himself say it. John sighed, pressing his lips together, unable to deny the tiny touch of humour he found in that assessment.

"We all have our talents," he commented.

"Some of us more than others," Sherlock murmured. "Upstairs, shall we? I need tea. Tell me what Lestrade knows."


	9. Chapter 9

"That was pointless."

John glanced across the seat as the cab pulled into traffic. Sherlock was grimacing as he massaged his jaw.

"All right?" John asked.

"Uncomfortable to sustain for so long."

John raised his eyebrows but made no comment, although privately he thought it was a relief to hear Sherlock's voice go back to normal. Posh, brash, arrogant – the same tone had carried across in the educated eastern American accent he'd adopted at the club. It had sounded strange coming from him though, like a recording being expertly dubbed to mask his voice.

"Not entirely pointless," John replied, passing his phone across the small space that separated them. He had two new numbers – three if he counted the one the bartender, Giselle, had slipped to him along with his bill.

"All of them mourning Ronald Adair's tragic death, I see," Sherlock muttered, skimming over the notes John had hastily typed into his phone when he'd had a few minutes alone. "Given your record, this should keep you busy for approximately a month."

"Thanks," John snorted, taking the phone back and tucking it away. "Don't tell me you didn't learn anything."

"Nothing useful. Oh, affairs, secrets, minor scandals – typical for any crowd, particularly one with this much money."

"Of course," John echoed, but if Sherlock heard the wry note in his voice, he ignored it.

"Nothing _pertinent_, John. No one there knows anything about Moran."

"Or they're good enough to hide that fact, even from you."

The derisive snort was answer enough, and John rolled his eyes. Some things never changed. The cab swung round the corner, stopping across the street from the house, and John was left to pay the bill as Sherlock scrambled out, already on his phone, oblivious to any oncoming traffic. Not that there ever was any. Somehow it seemed to work for the detective; the street was empty until John was ready to cross, and he was forced to wait.

Sherlock was already inside, holding the door open with one gloved hand.

_Small miracles_, John thought, stepping into the warmth of the common corridor. When the sounds of the street were shut out, the sudden silence seemed oppressive. The past few hours had been almost carefree, a deliberate distraction.

He wanted to ask what was next, but he already knew. He'd set the rules, after all. It wasn't quite Sunday, but it was close enough.

"I'll see you in the morning." It wasn't a question, but not entirely a statement either.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Good night, Sherlock," John sighed as he started up the stairs, ignoring the increasing weight with each step separating them.

Things wouldn't be the same again. Not now. Not ever.

It was time they both got used to that.

"Good night, John."

* * *

He set his alarm and checked his email to make sure there were no last minutes messages from Harry or Mary, both relieved and disappointed that nothing new had come in. The inevitable couldn't be delayed any longer; he needed to get some sleep.

John was about to put his phone aside in favour of the warmth of his duvet but hesitated, lips pursing, thumb still hovering over the screen. He opened his contacts, gazing at the two new names.

"_This should keep you busy for approximately a month."_

A year ago, that would have been true. John knew better now – maybe Sherlock did too. Tact wasn't his strong suit – or even a suit with which he was mildly acquainted – but stranger things had happened.

At best, this would keep him going for a week.

Without giving himself another moment to second guess his decision, John deleted both numbers and went to bed.

* * *

It was cold, the low, overcast sky threatening rain or snow, but never quite delivering. The breeze was cutting when it picked up; John jammed his hands into his pockets, wishing he was impervious to the cold the way Sherlock seemed to be.

They didn't have to be here. The service was over – it had been nice in the way all memorial services were. The funeral home had done their jobs well. Every detail had been taken care of perfectly, from the flowers to the music selection to the lighting. It had all been done with solicitous sympathy; decisions had never felt difficult, aided as they were by people who did this every day.

And it had felt bland and unreal, like he'd been cast in a play without his knowledge and was trying to look like he knew what he was doing without actually having the slightest clue.

None of it felt like _her_. There was no colour, no vibrancy. No life.

But that was probably the point.

The mourners had left and John could admit to himself that he was here in part to avoid the reception at the flat. He must have thought that was a good idea at some point.

It didn't seem that way now.

The earth was half-frozen, tinged white with frost, the same pale colour that hung in front of his face with each exhalation. Sherlock stood beside him – too close, really, but John didn't care. Distance seemed impossible to judge here, and the shared warmth helped. Helped bolster him, keeping the memories of another funeral, another tombstone, at bay.

The silence they kept until the plot was filled was practical – John had no desire to yell to be heard over the sound of the machinery. It detracted from the atmosphere somehow, no matter how much he understood that a single man with a shovel wasn't sensible.

He waited until they were alone before crouching down, pulling a small sack from the depth of his jacket pocket. Sherlock shifted behind him, silent questions unasked.

"Tulips," John said. The cold soil made his fingers burn before they went uncomfortably numb. "She asked me to." He doubted it was the right time of year and maybe they'd die, but he'd come back and plant more until they bloomed.

There was a flash of tall, dark shadow, and Sherlock was crouching across from him, peeling off leather gloves to rest them on the brittle grass. The extended hand surprised John making him pause before dividing the small stash in half. Sherlock went to work without a word; John watched, stunned, for a moment, half wondering if he should say something – then wondering what he _would_ say.

Pursing his lips against a question he didn't have, John turned back to his task, working in silence with Sherlock amidst the rows of granite markers spread out around them.

* * *

Sherlock had escaped the reception without comment, disappearing into the ground floor flat, and John had spent every minute since returning home wishing he could vanish as easily. He'd agreed to this for Mrs. Hudson's sake, he reminded himself firmly after each futile fantasy. It was a small crowd – his sister and Mary, Mrs. Hudson's friends from her bridge club, her great-niece from Aberdeen, Mrs. Turner – but the flat seemed simultaneously over-crowded and starkly empty.

It was Sherlock, John realized. Sherlock should be here.

He didn't blame the detective for not wanting to be.

They all wanted to talk about her, to trade stories and happy memories, but John was loath to let his own memories go. He didn't want them watered down, washed away by anyone else. He needed them for himself, for something to hang onto.

It was a familiar feeling.

So he served tea and smiled sympathetically and made sure plates of biscuits and small sandwiches were filled until a gentle hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present, back to the flat awash with the murmur of voices and the clinking of china.

Mary was watching him carefully; John shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Harry's going to round them up," she murmured, pitching her voice low enough so it didn't carry outside the kitchen. "Do you want us to stay?"

"Thanks," John replied with a shake of his head. "But I really need a drink."

"I thought you might," Mary said with a small, wry smile.

With the promise of imminent silence, the wait while everyone was gathered up and politely shooed away seemed interminable. John traded light hugs and kisses on cheeks, agreed to stay in touch without ever intending to do so, thanked them for coming, and nearly sagged on the spot when his sister shut the door behind the last of them.

Harry made no move to stay, and he couldn't fight the relief about that, nor did he care if she could tell. She hugged him, giving him a warm kiss on the cheek, and promised she'd call within the next couple of days.

The silence was like a drug kicking in – not a high, but a physical relief. John stood where he was, simply appreciating it for a moment, until the busy atmosphere began to ebb and the flat felt like his own again. Dishes were tidied into the kitchen, stacked neatly to be done later, the leftovers were binned without guilt or care.

He found a bottle of whiskey, poured himself a healthy measure, and hissed slightly as it burned down his throat. John refilled the glass, sipped it more slowly, tipping his head back to close his eyes at the relief that it was finally done.

He fished another glass from the cupboard, and took both of them and the bottle into the living room to settle gratefully into his chair.

* * *

The tread of footsteps on the stairs was quiet but still audible. Before the door was eased all the way open with a soft creak, John had a moment to collect himself, to wipe eyes that were dry now anyway.

The detective had done away with the suit jacket but was still in the black shirt and black trousers, polished leather shoes gleaming faintly in the lamplight. John's own jacket and his tie were draped over the arm of Sherlock's old chair.

Sherlock said nothing about them or the second glass. He filled it in silence, extended the bottle toward John who held up his glass, watching the dark amber liquid swirl against fading ice cubes.

Even with Sherlock settled into his chair, it didn't feel like old times. Before Sherlock's faked death, everything in the flat had felt close and cozy. Afterwards, the spaces had expanded until there was too much room, too much emptiness engulfing him. That gap was still there, nine months old and in the shape of Mrs. Hudson's memory.

"Where did you go?" John asked. Mycroft hadn't told him that. John knew the how and the why, but he had no map in his mind, no sense of Sherlock's movements. It made Sherlock seem more like a ghost than he had been during the last nine months, as if there were no transition between the body on the ground outside of Bart's and the person here in his flat.

He was done with ghosts and haunted memories.

"Switzerland first," Sherlock replied. "Zurich and Geneva for the banking contacts. Dublin – his first home base. Antwerp, The Hague. Paris, Berlin, Prague, Munich."

"A regular European tour," John commented. Sherlock ignored him – or hadn't heard him, it was hard to tell.

"From there, Hong Kong. We barely scratched the surface of his empire there – I did what I could, but I suspect their degree of organization made them highly practical – or practical tendencies made them highly organized, I don't know – and most of them regrouped, forming their own enterprise."

"So they're still out there."

"Moriarty was a facilitator to them," Sherlock replied, studying his drink. "Useful but not so necessary they couldn't without. Hong Kong led me to Beijing. Beijing to Mumbai. Delhi. Auckland."

"New Zealand?" John echoed. He'd taken Sarah there once – almost two years ago now – and the sudden rush of carefree memories left him reeling internally, nearly masking Sherlock's next comment.

"Afghanistan."

"Wait, what? _Afghanistan?_ Sherlock–"

"With Mycroft's assistance, of course, and well-guarded by one of his people. I had Moran's name by then and suspected he may be involved in smuggling of goods both into and out of the country."

"He's not?" John asked.

"Yes of course he is," Sherlock replied. "But firm evidence is difficult to come by. Mycroft's name may open doors, John, but Moran's name slams them shut and throws away the key."

A brief silence settled over them as Sherlock refilled his glass. John took another swallow, appreciating the faint burning feeling down his throat – it gave him something to focus on that wasn't the laundry list of cities Sherlock had passed through as he dismantled the remains of Moriarty's empire.

_Afghanistan_. He tried to picture it, Sherlock against the neutral golds and browns of the desert, camouflaged by drab colours. Washed out. Ephemeral. Moving from one clue to the next on a trail that had eventually led him back here.

"When would you have come back if– this hadn't happened? A month? A year?"

"However long it took to catch Moran," Sherlock replied.

"And if you'd found out before all this that he was in London? Would you have come back then?"

"Yes."

John bristled, hearing the words that weren't spoken.

"But not _here_," he snapped. "You wouldn't have come back _here_. You'd let us keep thinking you were dead until– when, Sherlock?"

"Until it was safe."

"Safe," John muttered with a wry, mirthless laugh. "Safe. When have you ever wanted safe? You had me texting a serial killer within hours of our meeting for Christ's sake! I had a bomb strapped to me just so Moriarty could drag you out to play! What the hell is 'safe', Sherlock?"

"Ronald Adair was killed with a single shot through an open window. In his home, from the street. Somewhere meant to be safe. Moran would have shot you in front of Bart's if I hadn't played along. Dying in front of a hospital, John. How do you imagine that feels?"

"I don't have to imagine!" John snapped.

"It never happened, so yes, you do."

"Jesus Christ," John muttered, pressing a hand over his lips. "What would you have done, Sherlock? Skulked around London until you caught him then– what? Just showed up here, without warning? What would have happened if–"

"There is no _if_," Sherlock interjected. "None of that could happen."

_Because she's dead_.

The words hung unspoken between them, and John felt adrift suddenly, the reality of the past few weeks finally catching up to him. All of the waiting. Trying to fill the little time they had left, cram it so full that it would make up for a lifetime of stolen memories. The shock and the disbelief at Mycroft's explanations. His world, already turned upside down, flipped over again and again until he was surprised he knew which way was up.

Ronald Adair, dead in his home.

Mrs. Hudson, gone in the space of a breath.

Sherlock, walking away from a fall that was meant to kill him.

It was difficult to breathe – too much space in a flat that felt emptier than it had when Sherlock had been _dead_. A vacuum, sucking the air from his lungs. Nine months suspended like they hadn't happened, like a confused and fading nightmare.

The memory of a porcelain tea cup, half empty on the mantle. Abandoned. Hollow.

"You can't stay downstairs anymore," John heard himself saying. It was a flinch, like Sherlock had been struck, but then a deep breath and a nod. Forcing himself to understand. Seeing a little bit more of _home_ slip away.

"I'll start looking in the morning–"

"No, you won't," John interjected. Surprise flashing through grey eyes, taking the place of expertly hidden pain. "_This_ is your home, Sherlock. You live here."


	10. Chapter 10

"We should get your things."

It had seemed like a good idea when sitting down masked the unsteadiness in his legs and made the world seem stable. On the stairs, John re-evaluated his decision; by the time they'd reached the ground floor, he'd come to the conclusion that he was, in fact, an idiot.

"Just your personal things," John amended. "Adair's stuff can wait till tomorrow."

"It _is_ tomorrow," Sherlock replied.

"Not yet," John said firmly.

"It's past midnight–"

"My house, my rules. Besides, I can't feel my fingertips."

"The work can't wait for you to sober up–"

"You're drunk, too. A bit."

"I am not," Sherlock sniffed. "I don't get drunk."

"Except that one time in Grimpen."

"I wasn't drunk, I was drugged."

"Same thing," John said.

"It wasn't by choice, and it wasn't nearly as enjoyable, believe me."

"Aha! You see? You _have_ been drunk. Otherwise, how'd you know that?"

"Observation," Sherlock replied crisply but turned away to pull something from a drawer, conveniently masking his reaction.

"Liar."

"I don't lie."

"You lie all the time. Here, give me that. You take the rest."

* * *

It sobered him somewhat – figuratively, at least – to realize how little Sherlock actually had. What wasn't case-related amounted to some clothing and toiletries. Nothing beyond the necessities, as if he couldn't spare the time or space. It was so unlike the cluttered chaos John associated with Sherlock that it made him edgy. Sherlock had become accustomed to living without anything tangible to tie him down. Ready to move on at a moment's notice, following Moriarty's lingering threats wherever they led him.

_He wanted to come home,_ John realized. _Instead he got this_.

Mrs. Hudson's absence felt suddenly like a vacuum, sucking them both in. Too large a void to fill, too incomprehensible to grasp.

"John?"

He had to drop the small bundle he carried on the stairs. Crouch down to keep the world from spinning.

"I don't understand how she can just be gone." He heard the words as if over the distance, and there was no unsteadiness in his voice, no burn of tears behind his eyes. That surprised him, but dully, as if it was happening to someone else.

And he _could_ understand it. The mechanics of it, at least. He'd watched her slip away for weeks, and he knew precisely what the doctors had been telling him.

It still made no sense.

"It's fine," he said, numb fingers gathering up Sherlock's clothes again before he hauled himself back to his feet, the banister taking his weight as he climbed the stairs.

* * *

The sudden sound and light from the television were shocking, but the babble of voices was a surprising relief. These were distractions, people invited into his flat he could evict at will, to whom he owed nothing. Sherlock settled on some terrible crime drama and was picking it apart before the first character had completed a single sentence.

A glass was pressed into John's hand; he took it automatically, able to muster some surprise at the generous amount of whiskey Sherlock had poured – the glass was half full.

"This is going to get me drunk," he managed.

"More drunk," Sherlock amended.

"Too right," John agreed, tipping it back, downing half of it in one go. Sherlock refilled it without hesitation, and John didn't argue.

The bottle was plunked on the small table beside the sofa, and Sherlock flopped down beside him, somehow managing not to spill his own drink in the process. John lifted his glass; Sherlock touched the rims together gently but made no comment. John preferred it that way – he didn't want to give voice to any of the things they were toasting. Not yet.

By the time the show was over, the bottle was empty and it wasn't just his fingers John couldn't feel but his teeth and lips as well. It was a strange feeling, one he'd forgotten about, and he tugged on his bottom lip, coaxing a dull sensation out of it.

Sherlock was gone suddenly, reappearing in his pyjamas and dressing gown before vanishing up the stairs. John watched him go with a snigger, unreasonably amused by nothing. When the detective returned, a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt were dumped unceremoniously on John's lap.

_Oh good_, he thought as Sherlock disappeared once more, this time into the kitchen. The prospect of making the climb to his room had been daunting, and he had no desire to sleep in his good clothing.

"I'm going to change," he muttered as Sherlock reappeared with another bottle – how he'd known it was there, John neither knew nor cared. "Give me that." He took the refilled glass with him into the bathroom. He made himself fold his trousers and hang his shirt neatly on the door, even though doing so took an excessive amount of time. He staggered into his own pyjamas before shuffling back into the living room.

"What now?" he asked, slumping back on the couch. Sherlock had settled on a home buying show, which John avoided under all normal circumstances, but the snide commentary from his flatmate made him laugh. His glass was refilled each time it approached empty, and when Sherlock switched programs yet again, the world was spinning gently but in a warmly pleasant way.

John smiled to himself, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back against the cushions as Sherlock's cutting remarks on whatever they were watching drifted reassuringly past him.

* * *

John awoke with a start sometime later, blinking rapidly as his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. The flat resolved itself around him slowly, the smooth blackness becoming shadows delineated by depth and shape, the glow from the street lamps creeping in around the edges of the drapes.

There was a warmth against his left side that felt both familiar and strange – the sensation of someone sleeping next to him. He didn't remember falling asleep but had dozed off with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective's head was tipped back, cheek resting on the crown on John's skull so that he could just feel the faint brush of breath with each of Sherlock's slow, steady exhalations.

His left wrist was caught lightly between Sherlock's thumb and first two fingers, as if he'd been counting John's pulse as he fell asleep. There was something reassuring about it, even as John remembered trying desperately to find a pulse in Sherlock's wrist on the pavement outside of Bart's all those months ago. The memory seemed distant. Fuzzy. He knew it still mattered, but somehow, it didn't matter right now.

John wondered vaguely if he could stay like this or if his bad shoulder would begin to protest. There was no pain now, but some reluctantly rational part of himself recognized that he was still drunk – even despite the sleep – and not feeling much of anything at all as a consequence.

Except warm. He felt warm. And safe. A stupid feeling; the realization made him chuckle softly when he thought about the argument that had led Sherlock back here in the first place. Part of the argument. A small part, like he was trying to distil what was really important about Sherlock's absence and returned presence.

The sound or the vibration made Sherlock stir, fingers tightening around John's wrist.

"Shh," John hummed, as if reassuring a child. He closed his eyes, deciding not to care about how his shoulder would feel in the morning. Sarah had given him the day off, and he reminded himself to thank her for the foresight. Even after all this time, she still knew him.

"Go back to sleep," John whispered when Sherlock shifted again, murmuring something inaudible. There was a sigh, another tightening of fingers that might have been a squeeze, and Sherlock relaxed, letting John slip back toward slumber.

* * *

Sherlock was still fast asleep when John awoke – reluctantly and with a low groan. The morning light made him wince, and moving did nothing for the headache gripping his skull. He extricated himself carefully from his friend's sleeping grasp, easing Sherlock down onto the cushions. The look of distaste on the detective's face made him smile despite the dryness of his lips, and Sherlock spread out, sprawling along the length of the sofa as soon as he was lying down.

_Of course_, John thought, patting him gently on the shoulder. Sherlock muttered something and turned over, back to the room, burrowing himself under the blanket that John draped over him.

He padded into the bathroom and washed down some painkillers with a full glass of water before heading to the kitchen to make a much needed cup of coffee. The smell didn't help the headache, but the taste and the warmth did. With a sigh, John sank gratefully into his chair, holding the steaming mug between both palms, and letting himself relax. Once he'd eaten, he would feel just about normal, but he was loath to get up and break the precious silence.

There was something solid about knowing Sherlock was here, and not just temporarily, as he had been the night before. John glanced back at the recumbent figure – Sherlock had shifted again, sprawled on his back, one arm flung up and over the arm of the sofa, face turned toward the room, hair sticking out in all directions. It made John smile into a sip of coffee; Sherlock had been home less than a day and the flat was already his again.

"You have a very loud gaze," his flatmate murmured, eyes still closed.

"Explain to me how something silent can be loud."

"I can practically hear the gears in your mind turning. Pointless, you know."

"Is it?" John asked, setting his mostly empty mug aside. "And why is that?"

"Whatever you're contemplating, I guarantee I've already thought of it."

"Oh, I don't know. I was going over the procedure for closing a patient after re-inflating a deflated lung."

Sherlock opened one eye sceptically.

"At nine in the morning and hung over? I doubt it. What _were _you contemplating so very loudly?"

"Nothing really," John said.

"Ah yes," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes again and draping his arm over them. "That does rather sound more like you."

"'Good morning, John. Sorry I got you drunk and fell asleep all over you.'"

"You fell asleep first and pinned me. I should point out how considerate it was of me not to disturb you. Do you know you snore?"

"So I've been told."

"Ah, by the various girlfriends. I didn't realize you spent much time actually sleeping with them."

John looked for something handy to throw and settled on a cork coaster which Sherlock snatched out of thin air without looking.

"That and former army bunkmates."

"You should see a doctor," Sherlock commented, rolling onto his side.

"I am a doctor."

"And as a doctor, what is your diagnosis for your snoring?"

"That my flatmate got me drunk."

"You're a grown man, John. You can choose to drink or not. I'll take no responsibility for your overindulgence. Is there still coffee?"

"You're a grown man," John replied with a grin. "Go make some."

Grumbling something about lack of consideration, Sherlock pushed himself up and shuffled into the kitchen. John watched him go, blue housecoat half hanging off one shoulder and trailing behind him.

"I'll have one too," he said. "No sugar this time."

Whatever snide retort had leapt to Sherlock's lips was interrupted by the sound of John's phone. With a pleasant – and somewhat gloating – smile, John picked it up, deliberately ignoring his friend.

"'Morning, Harry."

"John?" The breathing on the other end was harsh, almost panicked. John sat forward quickly, aware the motion had drawn Sherlock's attention.

"Harry? You all right?"

"John– please– please help–" Her voice sounded choked with tears, words catching and breaking apart. Not drunk. Terrified.

"Harry! _Harry!_ What's happening? Tell me what's happened."

"Mary– oh god, John– Mary's gone."

His heart stuttered, sending a cold feeling down to his fingers curled around his phone and into the arm of the chair.

"Gone? What do you mean gone? Gone where?"

"I don't know, John– I don't– I think someone took her– oh my god, John, please come. There's so much blood."


	11. Chapter 11

"Hang up and call 999–"

Sherlock plucked the phone so smoothly from John's fingers that the doctor reacted only in time to close his fist around thin air. A quick step back separated them, Sherlock holding an arm out, keeping John at bay.

"Harry, this is Sherlock. I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?"

Harsh breathing – crying – on the other end of the line. Panic. More than a bit not good, and no time to work through it.

"Harry, I need you to leave Mary's flat for me. Do you understand?"

"I can't– what if she comes back–"

"You don't know if anyone else is there. You need to leave. _Now_. Get down to the street." Hesitation, no movement on the other end of the line. "Harry! Go!"

"Okay, okay– Please come, please, you've got to help–"

"We're on our way but you've got to listen to me. Tell me when you get outside. Tell me."

"Almost." Voice broken, still shaking. "Oh my god, what now?"

"Do you see any CCTV cameras anywhere?"

"No, no, I don't–"

"Carefully, Harry! Look carefully! Focus for me, can you do that? Look for the cameras. _Slowly._"

John was going for the landline; Sherlock closed the distance between them in one long stride, forgoing any warnings, and wrapped an arm around the doctor's chest. Pining John to him, holding hard despite the struggles. A hiss with the mobile pulled away from his ear to keep Harry from hearing made John stop, muscles tense, breath coming in short, angry bursts.

"Cameras. Harry, do you see any cameras?"

"No– yes, okay. I see one– two."

"Get into the line of sight of the nearest one and _stay there_. Someone will be watching you."

"You've got to come–"

"We're coming. We'll be there. You can talk to John, just hold on one moment. Just one moment. We're still with you."

"Are you insane?" John hissed when Sherlock released him, the phone held behind his back to mask the conversation. "We need to call the police!"

"And risk them bungling the whole affair? If Mycroft isn't already aware of this, he will be soon. He can handle this far better than the police, John."

"What– your _brother_? You want to go to your brother? Since when–"

"Mary is one of his."

A pause, John's eyes going wide with disbelief. He exhaled a sharp gust of laughter, as if this might be a poorly timed joke.

"I told you Mycroft was having you followed. Mary met Harry two months after my faked suicide – do you suppose that was coincidental?"

"You _are_ insane!" John snapped, the control in his voice breaking at the struggle to keep it quiet. "Sherlock, they met through a friend! This isn't– not everything is some maniacal scheme concocted by your brother to– to control every move we make!"

"She was following me the other day when I went to the surgery."

"Yes! Because she was bringing me lunch!"

"And keeping an eye on you. Who better to do so than Harry's girlfriend? Someone you wouldn't suspect, but a woman not at risk of being broken up with by you. A stable presence in your life." John opened his mouth to reply; Sherlock pushed the mobile back into his hand. "Talk to your sister. I've got to telephone my brother."

—

"What do you mean?"

Sensations crystallized around him. The hum of the engine. The purring undercurrent of other traffic. A horn sounded behind them and to the right. Vibration from the car spreading through his body from his feet. John's gaze turning toward him, blue eyes bright, questioning.

Information. Four lights left – third would be red by the time they reached it. Barring changes in average traffic speed.

Mary Morstan. Taken from her flat.

Missing.

Not Mycroft's.

"Are you on your way there?"

His brother's voice shook Sherlock back to the present.

"Yes."

_Wrong._

He'd been wrong.

Losing his touch, losing his edge.

Losing John's family.

"I'll call the police–" Words forced through reluctant lips – a stupid thing to say but what else _was_ there to say?

"No." The word jolted him – again. Unbalanced. Not at home. His city masked by one he didn't understand– _no._ That was confusion. Panic. Unnecessary. Cordoned off, packaged up, binned.

"This needs to be handled properly," his brother continued. "Lestrade will be assigned to the case. I'll meet you as soon as I'm able. Get Ms. Watson to safety. You'll have whatever resources you need, Sherlock, but do nothing until we've secured the flat. If this is Moran, he knows you're alive, and he may not want you to stay that way."

—

No signs of forced entry – the deadbolt turned easily between Sherlock's nitrile-clad fingers. No scratches around the keyhole. No unusual looseness or stiffness to the knob.

"Lestrade, can you please see if Harry had a set of keys?"

"Why?" Lestrade asked. "Door's open."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly against the argumentative tone – he'd even said please, for god's sake. Not an unreasonable request.

"I need to test a theory."

"I'll go," John volunteered.

"No, it's fine." Lestrade was already vanishing back down the common stairs, John's gaze following him – obviously torn between helping here and comforting his sister. Mycroft was not the most reassuring of companions, but Lestrade's partner, Sergeant Hassard, had volunteered to stay with her.

Sherlock stepped inside, John a silent shadow behind him. The layout of the flat was absorbed immediately into a mental map, judging sizes and distances, the distribution of rooms. Small, neat, homey. Mary had lived here some time – six years according to John.

Comfortable furniture, well-used, cared for enough to keep it functional and presentable. Curtains still drawn – she'd been home after dark then. That was reasonable. Less likely to be observed than in broad daylight.

Footprints impressed into the area rug in the living room – more than there should have been, but from the Redcap forensics team. He'd gone through their photos first – nothing there but the faded impressions of a woman's bare feet.

A chair knocked over. A lamp fallen from a side table, bulb shattered into tiny crystalline pieces on the hardwood, the shade crushed and cracked. Cushions from the other chair dislodged, askew. That chair turned slightly, unaligned with the imprints it had long ago made in the rug.

Not all that much blood. To Harry it must have seemed so – but any amount would have. Mary – most likely, DNA would confirm – had been cut, but not deeply, not seriously. Struggling with her attacker, subdued quickly.

She hadn't seemed exceptionally strong to him the day he'd met her in John's office. On the short side. Taken by surprise somewhere she thought herself safe.

_Safe_.

There was that word again, the word John had thrown in his face only the night before. He'd stepped off the surety of brick into the weightlessness of air, had plunged to the pavement and his supposed death. Had lived in John's memory while he kept himself alive – or some hollow reflection of alive – to track down the man who had come to do _this._

Moran knew.

When he'd realized the detective's suicide had been faked was uncertain, but scarcely mattered. This was a feint, a gambit – which put Mary Morstan in more danger than if she were important. Mrs. Hudson could no longer be taken. An empty shell in the cold ground. Lestrade, John. They were protected. Even Harry. Harry had value to Sherlock through John. So did Mary, although there was a difference in degree

Sherlock stopped abruptly, a hand on John's shoulder, keeping him from moving. A question was stilled by a sharp look and a shake of his head; John stayed silent, watching him intently.

"Do you hear something?" Sherlock asked in a low tone. John's first instinct was to shake his head after a moment's hesitation; Sherlock saw the doubt flicker across his face before he nodded slowly.

A finger to his lips kept John quiet again, a gesture at the door had him heading off Lestrade, whose footsteps were too loud – distracting – on the stairs. Made the cut on his cheek ache, an irritating emotional response he had no time for and didn't want.

There it was again.

A faint trilling sound, almost like a small whistle. Sherlock closed his eyes, let his feet follow the sound. Pausing when it stopped, moving when it began again. Slowly. He opened his eyes to find himself in front of a window, drew the drapes aside carefully. Nothing on the sill, nothing on the floor.

It came again, small and electronic.

Almost distant.

On the other side of the glass.

Nimble fingers eased the window open carefully, cool air wafting in to meet the suddenly stale atmosphere in the flat. The phone had been left on the outer sill.

And still ringing.

Sherlock drew the blinds and ducked in one smooth movement, awaiting a shot that didn't come. The tiny sound interrupted the oppressive silence again, an alert on the screen indicating a new message.

"What is it?" John hissed, coming back into the living room to stop just behind the overturned chair, Lestrade half a step behind him.

"Mobile," Sherlock replied curtly. Not encased in pink at least.

"That's evidence," the sergeant hissed.

"And not meant for you," Sherlock replied, easing himself back to standing. No lock code for the phone – and he couldn't deny the flash of relief at that; he'd had more than enough of that game for one lifetime. "John, is it Mary's?"

"I don't know," John said, stepping up next to him, leaning in slightly to see. "I'm not sure–"

"Try texting her," Sherlock interrupted. The doctor met his eyes, fumbled for his phone, followed the instructions. Breathing was suspended for a moment, two, three…

Nothing.

"Try calling," Sherlock ordered. Just in case. John shook his head, but needn't have; Sherlock could hear the faint ringing and the quieter tones of a woman speaking when the voicemail kicked in.

Astonishing how reluctant his fingers were to obey him and open the voicemail. Sherlock could feel the tension that flowed along the lines of John's muscles as his own, reactions feeding off one another.

"_Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem."_

His grip loosened in shock, the phone saved from hitting the floor by John's quick reaction – _impressive_, Sherlock thought, distantly – a hand wrapping around his, fingers tightening to keep the phone in place.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Lestrade swore over the sound of Jim's voice, old words that weren't forgotten. Tone mocking, angry, disappointed. All underlain by the unstable edge of insanity.

John's eyes on him, grip tightening even more. He couldn't look away from the phone, not until he heard himself speaking. The recording he'd made. Left on the roof. Recovered by Mycroft. Transcribed.

He'd read those transcriptions but had barely needed to.

Living through it had been enough.

"How did he get this?" John murmured, voice low.

Of course John had known. Mycroft had told him everything. The evidence he'd need to clear his name when the job was done.

"He has her, doesn't he? Moran?"

John's gaze locked on his, so close it was almost dizzying, and Sherlock felt he could see it through the scope of a rifle, a distant, detached sight that would have left John dead and bleeding on the pavement in his place.

_Stop, _he told himself because there was no time for this, no time to let the past come rushing back, no time to give way to the fear in John's eyes. No time for anything but the case – the _chase_.

"Lestrade, give me those keys," he snapped, pausing the message and slipping the phone into his pocket. "Get my brother and his people. Every inch of this building needs to be searched, inside and out."


	12. Chapter 12

Where would he take her?

Why?

'Why' _was_ a question – Sherlock's first instinct had been to shirk it because the connection was John. But that was sloppy and _sloppy_ was something Moran was not. The cameras hadn't caught him outside Adair's house. Nor had they found him near Mary Morstan's. He knew their gazes, and he knew their shadows.

The lock had been expertly picked – or she'd opened the door for him. Harry's keys hadn't stuck when Sherlock had tried them. No surprise there. Moran had been in the special forces. Picking a lock was probably child's play.

But Mary had been at home and may have heard something. The alternative was more likely. It had happened to John, what felt like so long ago. Two years. Opening the door for take away, being taken away instead.

Interviews in the building were fruitless; no one had heard or seen anything.

A ghost.

He was chasing a ghost.

A man trained to see but not be seen. Sherlock had never cared for the limelight but hadn't sought anonymity either – not until it had been forced upon him. Moran was an expert at wrapping the shadows around himself. Sherlock had learned quickly, but not quickly enough.

He had made a mistake somewhere, been seen – but where and when weren't important. Mary _was – _but why? She might mean more to Moran than the haunted look in John's eyes as he slid into a chair across the joined desks from Sherlock. Might mean more than the suppressed panic, the etched lines of fear.

"She's asleep, thank god," John murmured, voice quiet, as if it might carry up the stairs even from here and wake his sister. He was older than Sherlock had remembered, as if the time between their first meeting and now had suddenly rushed in all at once. Grey hairs that Sherlock had always noticed but had never really paid attention to. Fine lines radiating out from eyes that should have crinkled from smiles.

He hadn't seen enough smiles on John since coming back. Mrs. Hudson had taken them with her, leaving both of them with nothing more than memories – intangible, insubstantial.

Sherlock could feel the emptiness of the ground floor flat creeping upward, as if it were a physical thing, spreading out to occupy all the space it could. Pushing on his lungs like a weight, niggling at the edges of his mind as if to tease apart his concentration. There was something missing – some_one_ missing, and now the count had doubled to two.

He could feel Mrs. Hudson's absence everywhere, as if it had been imprinted on every nerve. Why now, when he didn't have time for it? Why this, when he'd worked so hard to keep them all together?

John was watching him, hovering on the edge of hope and fear. _Make this okay, Sherlock._ Figure it out. Put the pieces together. Outsmart the man who had been outsmarting them all.

Find her.

That trust. Complete and utter trust. _One hundred percent_. _I know you're for real._

He'd forgotten what that felt like, to have someone trust him. To feel grounded in something. To belong in a place not because of the place itself, but because of the people who lived in it.

Sherlock seized the feeling because it was _home_, because he needed the focus. It wasn't a game; Mycroft had said as much. Knowing that didn't change the facts. Moran was in London. He'd taken Mary Morstan.

Sherlock needed to know _why_.

"Tell me everything you know about her," he said.

* * *

John was pacing for something to do, to fulfil the need to _move_, and now the flat seemed too small. After all this time, months of engulfing silences, he couldn't find the space he needed.

Sherlock was statue still, moving only to scroll through the files Mycroft had compiled on Mary – _of course_ he had. It made sense, and John raged against it, hating the intrusion while silently begging Sherlock to find _something _in there. Some hint, some clue that would lead them to Moran.

It was ridiculous. _He _was the only link. John had dropped her into an assassin's path without intending to – without considering she might be a target. Sherlock had stepped off an airplane onto British soil and a crosshair that had once been aimed at John had turned on someone he loved.

It could have been Harry. It could have been him. It _should_ have been him – he'd have traded places in a heartbeat, no questions, no qualms. He wanted to shout it now – _take me!_ – but the audience wasn't the one he needed. He fisted his hands to quell the urge to interrupt Sherlock, to demand he do something. _Anything_. Because he was; John could see that in the way grey eyes flickered over the monitor, the way white teeth tugged at a lower lip as he thought, the way desperate concentration drew rigid lines of tension down his neck.

"_Let me help!" _He wanted to yell it – but there was no point. He'd told Sherlock everything he knew about Mary, every scrap of knowledge he had, the tiniest details he remembered from all the times Harry had talked about her – and it amounted to nothing. _She_ wasn't the one who would leave the clues. If there were any clues. Her favourite colour, her taste in music, her dislike of Indian food – what good was that in tracking down Moran? In understanding a highly trained psychopath who had abducted her and left no trace of himself except the one he wanted to leave?

The panic drained suddenly, leaving him dizzy, lightheaded, and John struggled to remember when the last time he'd eaten was. Really eaten. Not nibbled on snacks at the reception. Breakfast yesterday morning, before the funeral. A little over twenty-four hours and he could scarcely believe they'd just laid Mrs. Hudson in the ground, had said silent, final good-byes. Sherlock crouched across from him, long fingers working in the frozen dirt, planting bulbs that may never grow. The warmth and security of having his best friend back, of having some of that constant absence filled, only to have it torn open again.

"I need–" John began, stopping when he realized he didn't know, trying to regroup. "I need to lie down a bit." The idea of food was unappealing; he needed to get off his feet first, just for a bit, try and make some sense of this nightmare.

"Leave the door open." It seemed like an odd instruction, until John realized Sherlock was referring to his bedroom door – and that he was heading there, not the sofa. He couldn't lie in the living room and listen to Sherlock work, feel the pressure as time slipped away.

This wasn't a game. There were no rules.

They didn't know how much time Mary had.

If any at all.

He was grateful for the mattress taking his weight, for the chance to close his eyes, just for a moment. He needed to get ahold of himself – but it felt like there was nothing to hold onto anymore. Nine months of grieving had been made useless in a few short minutes, but one loss had been replaced with another and then compounded. John felt rudderless, confused. Recognized the panic. Wondered what he could do to stave it off.

A deep breath.

Another.

Another.

He focused hard on the breathing, a slow inhale and a slow exhale, some of the fear ebbing. But hovering, ready to come back. He set his jaw; he didn't want to resort to the medication he'd given Harry to calm her down, to help her sleep. He needed to be alert. He needed to be useful.

John's heart rate calmed, pushing back against the storm that still threatened in his mind. Information began to slip past the adrenaline haze that had kept him going through the search of Mary's flat, through dealing with his sister. The warmth of the air in the flat. The faint sounds of Sherlock working. The creak of a floorboard as the house shifted and settled.

A smell– something familiar but which he couldn't place. Clean, sharp, warm. It surrounded him, and John inhaled again, catching it all of a sudden.

The linens. He'd washed them every week and made the bed despite the futility of the gesture. Something about the routine had helped at first, had carried him through until stubbornness turned into habit and he'd refused to change his patterns.

The sheets and pillowcases that had smelled of laundry detergent and dryer sheets now smelled like Sherlock.

He sat up quickly, pressing his index fingers on either side of his nose. The scent lingered and he held onto it. The first time he'd striped the bed to wash the sheets, the smell had almost undone him; the same hot sting filled his eyes and tightened his throat as he tipped his head back, blinking hard.

"I can't do this," he heard himself saying, half unsurprised at the creak of the floorboard just outside the door, at Sherlock's timing. "Jesus, Sherlock, not again. Not now. She can't be dead."

John could feel the hesitation and it made him laugh, a short, harsh burst of sound that had nothing in common with humour.

"This is our fault."

_Your fault, my fault_. He couldn't separate the two somehow. The blame was spread between them, shared. Would Harry see it that way when she woke up? Would she put it on John because he was her brother, or Sherlock because he'd caught Moriarty's attention in the first place?

"Blame is selfish."

John twisted abruptly, anger like a hot wave slapping over him.

"Coming from you?" he spat. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, the movement visible more as a change in the texture of light and shadows, outlined as he was from the lamp and sunlight coming from the living room, contrasting with the more sombre tone of the room cast by closed drapes.

_He looks so young_, John thought, inanely, unable to help being struck by it. Like two years hadn't happened, as if he'd simply stepped in from the day they met, unchanged.

But that was a lie – seeing what he wanted to see. There were small lines around Sherlock's eyes that hadn't been there before. That hadn't even been there at the hospital only a handful of days ago, but that had etched themselves into his skin the day before.

John wondered if he was carrying Mrs. Hudson in his expression, too. What Sherlock could see in it. The faint creases made him look somehow vulnerable, a little too real and not real at all, both at the same time. John's hands curled around the edge of the mattress, displacing the sudden need to touch Sherlock and make sure the detective wasn't a figment of his imagination.

"You could feel sorry for yourself, but it would be more productive to actually help me."

_Nope, he's real_, John thought, a flash of mirth passing through him.

"How?" he asked.

"By trusting my judgment."

John shut his eyes – only briefly – resigning himself to whatever it was Sherlock had in mind, and the fact that he wasn't going to like it.

"We have to find out why Adair died."

"What?" John demanded. "Sherlock, I told you, there's no way she knew him. They hardly travelled in the same circles!"

"The information Mycroft has on her supports that," Sherlock agreed. "Moran targeted Mary because of us. Someone targeted Adair, but who or why, we don't know. His specialized skills are for sale, John. Someone's paying him, and whoever that is, he's our link to Moran. And Moran is our link to Mary."

"What do we need to do?" John asked.

"You'll need to find someone to stay with Harry," Sherlock replied. "We'll be going out. I have an idea where to begin."

* * *

It took some doing to sort out, but John wanted both someone with whom Harry felt safe and whom he trusted. Clara would have been the obvious choice – but even if she might have agreed, John didn't want to put her in harm's way as he had with Mary.

He found an AA friend of his sister's who was able to leave work, and who seemed level headed enough in face of the news. John made himself eat while awaiting the other man's arrival, trying to ignore Sherlock beavering away on something.

Leaving the house made him feel almost physically ill, as though he were abandoning his sister and any links they had to progress in the case. Mycroft had promised to call as soon as he had any news, but John still felt edgy. It was the lack of space for pacing, he realized. He had to sit, patiently, in the cab, listening as Sherlock give an address that meant nothing to him.

"Where are we going?" he hissed.

"I found this in Adair's things," Sherlock murmured in reply, passing a receipt slip across the small space that separated them. "For an off-course betting establishment. It seems Adair placed a recent bet on an American 'football' game." John smiled wanly at the disdain that slipped into Sherlock's voice – either for the sporting event or the fact that it wasn't British. "It seems our Mister Adair was something of a gambler."

"Do you think that's why he was killed?" John asked, careful to keep his voice pitched low, audible only to Sherlock over the hum of the taxi's motor.

"Not necessarily," Sherlock replied, tugging his lower lip once, absently, between a thumb and index finger. "It appears to have been a hobby rather than an addiction – he didn't lose or owe any large sums of money, as far as I can tell from his records."

"But you think there's something in it."

"Maybe," Sherlock agreed. "Money is a powerful motivator."

"Hard to collect from a dead man," John pointed out.

"But easier to avoid repayment," Sherlock observed as the cab slowed to a stop, depositing them on a corner. John glanced around, trying to get his bearings. There was a mishmash of shops – a pawnbroker, a charity shop, a café – but nothing that looked like a gambling establishment to him.

"John. Do you trust me?"

The question derailed the one he was about to ask, leaving him scrambling mentally for a moment as he switched tracks. There was a seriousness to Sherlock's tone that matched the steady grey-eyed gaze – one John wasn't used to. It lacked any sort of judgment, even though Sherlock's eyes were flickering over his face, searching his expression.

John pursed his lips but nodded, surprised to find that it was true. Even after nine months and all the lies, even with Mary's absence looming over them, he couldn't shake the conviction that had carried him through, that had made him believe in Sherlock despite the claims the detective had been a fake.

"Then play along, don't question. Come on."

A swirl of dark wool and Sherlock was striding away, leaving John rushing to catch up. The set of his shoulders changed, drawing him up to make him look even taller. The tilt of his chin and the set of his jaw shifted, eyes turning to cool mirrors reflecting boredom laced with irritation when he deigned to glance down. Without quite intending to, John found himself opening the door to the small shop, holding it for Sherlock to breeze through.

Inside wasn't what he was expecting – although John couldn't have said really what he was expecting. A dim atmosphere with round tables occupied by rough-edged men, a hazy layer of smoke hanging over the entire thing, maybe. An image he'd conjured from films and books, most likely. It looked more like a bank, although dingier. There were three windows along the far wall, separated from the scuffed floor and too-bright fluorescent lighting of the lobby by thick glass and bars. Two were closed, shuttered tight; the third was occupied by a bored-looking man watching something on a screen John couldn't see.

"Yeah?" he asked, without looking round.

"Watson." The word was dripping with weariness and expectation, and Sherlock didn't bother glancing at him when John looked up in surprise. The detective extended a hand toward him, the motion graceful in its carelessness, and John plucked the proffered ticket and licence from Sherlock's fingers.

It was Sherlock's photo but Ronald Adair's name beside it, matching up neatly with the name on the betting slip.

"Mister Adair's winnings, please," he said, stepping up to the counter and pushing the ticket and ID card through the small opening. Sherlock was favoured with a scrutinizing look; John glanced over his shoulder to see a faint scowl on his friend's face as he met the agent's eyes squarely.

"Three hundred," the man said, sliding three wrinkled notes back at John.

"Three hundred?" Sherlock echoed. "Is that all? Watson, how much did you put down? Never mind," he continued before John could begin to formulate a reply. "You'll do better next time. I suppose Moran collected a tidier sum than that. Has he been in yet?"

"Don't know any Moran," the agent replied shortly. The faintly disgusted noise from Sherlock made the other man's eyes narrow.

"You must," Sherlock contradicted. "He'll have won more than I have." A glare directed John's way, and the doctor felt himself fidget as if caught out red handed. "When he comes in, tell him he owes me a drink. Several in fact. Hurry up, Watson, we haven't got all day."

He had swept out the door, billowing coat vanishing from view before John had got himself together enough to scoop up the bills from the counter.

"Thanks," he said, unsurprised when he got no response. He hurried out but needn't have – Sherlock was waiting from him where the shop met its neighbour, positioned carefully out of the line of sight of anyone inside.

"What was that about?" John sighed.

"Adair gambles," Sherlock replied as the money and the forged licence disappeared into a deep pocket. "I've tracked down a few of his regular establishments, but I'll need money if I intend to play."

"You?" John asked. "You're going to play – what?"

"Poker, most likely," Sherlock replied, stepping off the pavement to hail a cab.

"You're going to play poker."

"Obviously."

"How on Earth – no, of course you know," John sighed. He wondered where Sherlock had learned – university, most likely – but it _would_ appeal to someone like him. Not the game itself, but studying the faces of the other players, deducing what they held in their hands by little tells that probably only he could see.

"You could have just got money from Mycroft," he pointed out. Sherlock sneered faintly by way of reply, slipping into the back of the cab that had stopped for them.

John's mobile chimed as he shut the door behind him; he dug into his pocket hurriedly, worried it would be Harry or the friend who was staying for her. He didn't want to leave her thinking she was alone. Not now. Even though he knew nothing new, even if he felt like they were no closer to finding Mary.

"Jesus Christ," John muttered, fumbling to keep his mobile from slipping through his fingers, passing it to Sherlock quickly.

_I gave you my number. Why didn't you call?_


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** This may be the last update for awhile, not because I'm stuck with the story or quitting writing, but because I'm going to Italy for work for 6 weeks! In my real life, my job is sometimes extremely cool. This is one of those times. I'm not sure how much free time I'll have to write (especially since my weekends will be spent in Rome!), but I will resume when I return in mid-August, if not before.

* * *

"Absolutely not."

"I understand your reluctance–"

"No," John interjected, meeting Mycroft's steady gaze, falling back on years of military experience to hold it. When a flicker of irritation and disappointment creased the elder Holmes' otherwise reserved features, he felt a bit like he was facing a displeased superior officer.

"The last time I heard something like that, I had a bomb strapped to me. And let's not forget the snipers Moriarty had trained on us. No!"

"Given your description of her, it's highly unlikely that this woman – Giselle – is a trained assassin."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" John snapped. "If she works for Moran, do you think he'd send her in alone? He _is_ a trained assassin, Mycroft! She doesn't need to do anything! Not to mention she's a bartender, so she could just poison me!"

"You needn't eat or drink anything," Mycroft sighed. "And we'll have you well protected. I'll choose the time and place – no one will be admitted without my clearance."

"Don't you think that'll look suspicious?" John demanded. "Just me and her alone in a coffee shop? In the middle of London?"

"We have more than enough people to serve as patrons and staff," Mycroft replied wearily.

"No," John repeated, shaking his head, casting a glance at Sherlock for support. The detective had been oddly quiet – he'd neither complained about Mycroft taking control of the situation nor protested the so-called plan.

"She did give you her number," Sherlock pointed out.

"So did those two other women!" John shot back, startled by a momentary feeling of desertion, a sense that Sherlock was siding against him. "Neither of _them_ has sent me a threatening text message!"

"You deleted their numbers," Sherlock observed, raising one eyebrow coolly, a strange glint in his eye, gone before John could be really sure he'd seen it. "You kept hers."

"I forgot I had it," John retorted defensively. "That isn't the same thing."

"And fortuitous for us," Mycroft interrupted.

"You could have traced her within minutes," Sherlock snapped, redirecting his gaze – and apparent annoyance – to his brother.

"Yes, but this saved us the trouble," Mycroft replied smoothly. "Whatever your personal views on the type of women John attracts, Sherlock, this may work to our advantage. John," he continued, cutting Sherlock off as the detective drew a breath for what John assumed was an affronted reply, "I _do_ understand your reluctance to insert yourself into this situation, but we must consider the possibility that this woman actually has information for us. Regardless of her intentions towards you, she's made contact. Ms. Morstan's life is at stake, and I know you appreciate that."

John sat back in his chair, repressing a sharp sigh. Mycroft had him pinned – there was no getting around it. The thought of walking away from this – from any chance at finding Mary – pushed him back toward panic.

He couldn't do that to her. Or to Harry.

He cast another glance at Sherlock; the detective's lips were pursed into a thin, white line, making his features taut and almost unfamiliar. He clearly wanted to argue but said nothing. The detective's grey eyes caught his for a moment, darkened by something – reluctance? Anger? Sherlock broke the gaze before John could identify the expression, pressing a long index finger against his lips as if to silence himself.

It made him uneasy that Sherlock was agreeing with Mycroft.

It also meant Mycroft was probably right.

"I want to pick the place," he said, keeping his surprise at the words hidden. "Somewhere I know."

There was a pause, and John refused to relent under Mycroft's cool, steady gaze. If he was going to walk into the crosshairs of a sniper rifle – _again_ – he at least wanted to do it on some of his own terms.

"Very well," Mycroft conceded, looking away to shift a file on his desk. "But not Speedy's. It's too close to your home, and I'd like to keep her as far from Harriet as possible."

John gave a curt nod.

"I want all the information you can get on this Giselle, too," he added. "I'm not going in blind."

* * *

He felt blind, with John as his eyes and ears. Relying on someone else's senses was a dubious proposition at best. Even John, who could be counted on to report whatever he saw.

It wasn't enough.

John was intelligent, yes – but a genius, no, despite all he'd picked up a lot while assisting on the cases. He hadn't trained himself to observe the way Sherlock had. Didn't know how to read motivations and intentions and lies in a casual glance.

But John did know women.

She – Giselle Hanning, according to the information Mycroft had sent over – certainly hadn't given Sherlock her number.

Clever, that.

Of course, if she was one of Moran's – or Moriarty's – any lack of cleverness wouldn't be tolerated.

It chafed, though, to watch John fuss with his jumper, smooth his hair. All those tedious little motions Sherlock had seen so many times. Meant to ensure an image of perfection, to impress his date. A meaningless ritual Sherlock had always found tiresome.

This time, there was no anticipation. Short, nervous moments, creating an image that was a lie. Meant to deceive. Nothing more than a thin veneer to lead _her_ into a trap, he reminded himself.

And it chafed to admit that Mycroft was right. To let John step into harm's way – after so many months of working against it.

He'd stepped out onto thin air to prevent this.

It was no longer a game. Not this time. Every move calculated – on both sides. But there was no playing. Not anymore.

He met John's eyes in the mirror.

_Are you sure about this?_ The question hovered on his tongue, unspoken. He'd been sure when he'd leapt to his supposed death. Certain it was the only way. The same sort of desperate hope was reflected in John's eyes. Not to save him – Sherlock didn't need that – but to save Mary. To put himself in the path of a madman for someone else's sake.

"Sherlock, are you sure about this?"

* * *

It seemed uncomfortably familiar, watching Sherlock watching him in the mirror this way, a flash of memory surfacing from the first day of Moriarty's trial. Sherlock straightening his collar, fiddling with his clothing. The way John was doing now.

But the venue had changed, and nearly a year stretched between _now_ and _then._ Mrs. Hudson's flat felt empty despite their presence. John had stayed in their flat only long enough to grab some clothing – Harry had still been sleeping and her friend hadn't asked many questions, thank god.

There was something in Sherlock's expression – fleeting, insubstantial, perhaps a figment of John's imagination, or an artefact of the reflected image.

"You're not usually so supportive of Mycroft's plans," John continued, turning away from the mirror to face his friend.

"That should give you a reasonable indication of my confidence," Sherlock replied in a crisp tone that John didn't quite believe. It did reassure him somewhat that Sherlock agreed with his brother – but it made him uneasy, too.

Sherlock had faked his own death to save him. John wondered how far the elder Holmes brother would go to preserve his life.

It struck him for the first time how isolating Sherlock's choice must have been. To step out of his life, away from everything he knew. To cut himself off deliberately. To become a living ghost.

John wondered if he could have done it – or could have done it without going mad.

"_I don't have friends. I've only got one."_

It wasn't true, of course. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had been on Jim's list, and with good reason. And Molly, John supposed – whether or not Sherlock recognized it. He still wasn't inclined to be generous toward her, but could admit grudgingly – and privately – that she must have put a lot on the line to help Sherlock with his desperate plan.

"Why did you delete those numbers?" Sherlock asked, startling John back to the present.

"What?" he replied, struggling to catch up.

"You deleted the numbers the other two women gave you. Not like you, John. Wasted opportunities."

John met his friend's gaze, looking for some hint he was being played. Sherlock's expression was indecipherable, level and removed – but there was that same fleeting darkened look in his eyes John had seen only moments ago.

He shook his head, straightening the cuffs of his jumper.

"Now's just not really a good time, is it?" he asked. Not a good time to explain, not a good time to enjoy the chase. Things that would have been so appealing before Sherlock had come back now seemed pointless. Before that, if he were honest with himself, everything had been put on hold when Mrs. Hudson had become ill, and he wondered now if he'd had a single moment since then when life had been familiar.

"Besides," he added, trying for some levity, "I've got a date, haven't I?"

There was a twitch on Sherlock's lips, nothing that came close to a smile.

The detective closed the distance between them, standing so close John fought the urge to react, aware that the mantle was right behind him and Sherlock was right in front; he had nowhere to go. Long fingers ran under the collar of his shirt, straightening the fold, then tugging fastidiously at the fabric of his jumper where it covered his shoulders, smoothing some imaginary crease.

"First impressions," Sherlock commented, stepping back half a pace. John nodded, letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"As long as you don't suggest I take her to the circus, I think we should be fine. Let's just get this over with, shall we?"

* * *

He was halfway there when it really began to seem like a bad idea.

Mycroft had put John in a cab driven by one of his own people, and Sherlock had glowered at not being able to go along but hadn't protested. That had sparked another pang of uncertainty that John had swallowed, turning in his seat to watch Sherlock staring stoically after the taxi. It probably wasn't helping matters that the detective had gone with his brother, left to fret and stew in silence while Mycroft gloated in his not-at-all-gloating kind of way.

He was alone, unarmed, and backed up by people he didn't know.

If he'd tried this in the military, he'd have been court-martialled for his stupidity.

If he'd been lucky enough to survive.

To distract – and prepare – John went over what they knew about Giselle again. Or what they thought they knew. Thirty-four, born and raised in London, single (in an odd way, John hoped that was really true), no children, no pets. She'd tended bar at a handful of other exclusive places, working her way up the ladder to where she was now. John had no illusions that it wasn't a coveted and illustrious job – she probably made more than he did working at the surgery.

He straightened his cuffs absently, wondering if he should have insisted Sherlock be in the car with him. She'd seen him at the club, after all. Whatever advantage Sherlock had gained in being "dead" was lost now – what difference would it make?

John supposed showing up on a date with his best friend would raise some questions, though. He smiled wryly, without humour, remembering his first date with Sarah.

Looking back, he wondered why she'd agreed to meet him again after that. If he'd known how the date would go, he would have chosen the cinema – boring option or not.

_Is she laughing about what I'm walking into?_ he asked himself, tugging his lower lip absently between his teeth. Would she even be there? Certainly Mycroft's people would have stopped this if he were walking into an immediate trap – but Moriarty had played a long and devious game. Even if she wasn't a psychopathic genius like her former boss, how much she learned from him?

_It's official, I'm mad_, he told himself as the cab pulled up outside the small coffee shop. John made an act of paying the "cabbie" and slipped out, checking each way, ostensibly for pedestrians, relief flashing through him when he saw Mycroft's car pull smoothly into a parking stall.

A man on his phone next to the café door met his eyes and gave a brief nod. John took a deep breath, steeling himself, and slipped inside.

The clamour of voices and the sudden warmth of the air was almost jarring – so normal yet unexpected that he almost paused, certain he was in the wrong place. He made himself scan the cozy interior with military attention, noting the position and number of tables, their occupants, the baristas behind the counter.

Giselle was at a table in the corner, a cup of tea and a pastry already in front of her, looking up to meet his gaze with a smile. She was prettier than John remembered, dark hair pulled back from her face in a loose, graceful plait, dark eyes lighting up when she recognized him.

"Hello," John said, leaning in to give her a brief kiss on the cheek as she stood to greet him. "Sorry I'm a bit late."

"That's all right – Mister Warren, wasn't it?"

"Watson, actually. John Watson. But please, call me John."


	14. Chapter 14

"I'm surprised you wanted to meet me so quickly," Giselle commented, absently smoothing a strand of dark hair behind her ears. She was prettier than John remembered – although he hadn't paid much attention to her at the club, other than a smile and a thank you for his drinks.

Here she looked less polished, the smattering of freckles that crossed her nose more evident, her eyes and lashes lighter without much make-up. If he'd passed her on the street, he certainly _would_ have given her a second look, and he'd have never suspected she was working for an assassin.

He thought abruptly of Irene Adler, and reminded himself about deception. Adler had been at her most dangerous when she'd appeared at her most vulnerable – hair and make-up not done, wrapped in Sherlock's dressing gown.

The memory sparked a flare of anger. They'd been taken in once. He didn't intend for it to happen again.

He gave a light shrug in response to Giselle's words.

"You're a bartender," he replied. "I thought you'd have the afternoon off."

"All day," she said, arching a dark eyebrow. "Tomorrow too."

John let himself smile briefly at the comment, playing along with her intended meaning.

"Weekends are always busy," she continued. "It's always nice to have a break."

"It doesn't seem like the kind of place to host a lot of rowdy drunks."

"Yes, I thought it was your first time there. You'd be surprised," Giselle replied with a slight smile. "But here I am chattering on – don't you want a tea?"

He didn't – Mycroft had promised him he wouldn't have to – but it would look odd and the place _was_ staffed entirely by Mycroft's people. John excused himself momentarily, coming back with tea and a caramel slice for each of them. If he was going to do this, he could at least enjoy a little part of it.

Giselle took hers with a delighted thank you and for a moment, John wondered if they'd got the whole thing wrong. If he really _was_ here on a date with an unsuspecting woman.

The memory of the blood in Mary's apartment, of the way the key had turned so effortlessly in the lock, sent a stab of anger through him. The wire tapped to his chest seemed hot for a moment, and he resisted the urge to shift, covering his reaction by sipping his tea.

"It was," he confirmed. "I'm not a member. My friend – the American – he is."

"First time I've seen either of you," Giselle commented, arching an eyebrow.

"I'm not sure when he was last there," John replied with a shrug. "He doesn't come to London much anymore."

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"A little more posh than I'm used to," John said with a chuckle. "How long have you been there?"

"A couple of years," she replied, confirming what John already knew. He filed that away as at least one truth – although he supposed that could be faked as well. He wondered if Mycroft had thought to enquire with her co-workers, then rolled his eyes inwardly. Of course he had.

"What about you?" she asked. "What do you do?"

"I'm a doctor." A smile played on her lips as she raised both eyebrows, and John shook his head. "Believe me, it's not as glamorous as your job."

"I did say it was your first night there," she said with a grin. "We may not be a dive pub on football night, John, but we have our fair share of unruly drunks."

"And what happens to them? Unceremoniously tossed onto the pavement?"

"Oh, there's been many times I've wished we could," Giselle replied, tracing the tip of her index finger absently around the rim of her mug. "But no. Having your membership revoked is often enough of a deterrent – most of our clients do _not_ want their evenings disrupted by obnoxious drunks. If we have to evict you, that's the last you'll see of us."

"I'll remember to be on my best behaviour," John joked.

"Do," Giselle murmured, dark eyes flickering to the café employee who had slipped up beside their table with a quiet "excuse me" and was drawing the wooden slat blinds. "Odd," she commented, gaze following the young man as he moved to the next rain-spattered window. "It's not bright out."

John turned in his chair, watching the windows being covered, then gave her a slight shrug, using the moment to assess her as best he could. By all appearances, she wasn't a woman concerned about the sudden visual separation from the outside world. If anything, she seemed mildly puzzled. Not, John thought, the reaction of someone who was relying on a distant observer to keep in contact.

But if he was wearing a wire, maybe she was, too. How small could a hidden camera be? Certainly someone like Moran would have access to something tiny enough to go unnoticed.

The sensation of being in cross-hairs made his skin crawl, and he had to force himself to pay attention to the renewed conversation.

"For the most part, the patrons are very well-behaved. Some good tippers, too. Like your friend." John snorted inwardly, wondering how much of that had been Mycroft's money. "The man your friend was asking about – the one who was killed – he was too."

"I'm so sorry," John managed. "Of course you knew him."

"Not that well," Giselle replied. "Not from anywhere but the club – we hardly travelled in the same circles, but he was always polite, no matter what. It makes me sad, when good people go out of the world."

"Me too," John replied with more feeling than he'd intended, the memory of Mrs. Hudson surfacing so fast it was momentarily difficult to breathe. "Sorry, sorry," he said at her alarmed look, watching as a barista moved toward the door with a mop and bucket, as if to clean the floor. "My– a close friend of mine died last week. Under more peaceful circumstances, but still."

"Not Mister Adair?" Giselle asked, a faint frown creasing her features.

"No, I didn't know him," John replied.

"You didn't? I thought since your friend was asking about him, you must."

"Not personally," John replied. "My American friend did, some business venture they were part of–"

"Although we never did actually meet," a deep baritone said suddenly, and both Giselle and John looked up, startled, to see Sherlock standing there, having appeared out of nowhere. A tall, imposing silhouette in a dark coat, almost masking Mycroft's presence next to him. "And neither have we, Ms. Hanning, although I strongly suspect you know precisely who I am."

—

A flicker of his own doubt at hers. Brow furrowing slightly, dark eyebrows drawing together. Eyelashes fluttering on a bewildered blink, a puzzled light in dark eyes. The corners of lips barely pursing into a frown.

"I thought you were American," Hanning said.

"You did not," Sherlock replied levelly, and saw the flash of realization, embarrassment. Caught in a lie.

Oh, she was good.

Of course she was good.

He didn't ignore the warning at the back of his mind but refused to let it distract him. She'd opted against the role of ignorance and would try to disarm them by honesty, admitting she had played them.

Hanning glanced at John, who gave her a hard look but shrugged, then back at Sherlock, before her gaze found Mycroft. Delayed – or what appeared to be delayed.

"All right, I recognized the two of you at the club," she sighed, nails drumming once against the table. "But who are you?" The question was directed over Sherlock's shoulder, where he could feel his brother's irritatingly superior presence.

"No one of consequence."

Sherlock didn't react outwardly, catching John's quick glance upward, but savoured the words, storing the memory gingerly like a rare pressed flower and putting it up and out of reach on some distant shelf.

"How did you know?" Hanning asked.

"Your text," Sherlock replied shortly.

"What, asking John why he hadn't called?"

There it was again, and Sherlock saw it in John too – had already seen it in his friend's face once, before the false date had so mercifully been interrupted. Unbalanced. Missing a thread somewhere.

_Don't_, he warned himself.

"Would you like me to recite the entire conversation for you?" he asked, voice sardonic, cold.

Her eyes met his again, brighter now – for just a moment. She gave her head a little shake, gaze darting to John as if asking for something. Support? Clarification?

"I texted John and asked why he hadn't called. He apologized and suggested meeting here. I said yes. What is this about?"

She wasn't looking at the covered windows. Wasn't _not_ looking windows either. Wasn't focused entirely on him, her attention flickering between the three men, but not timed or patterned.

Something was wrong.

"What do you think it's about?" he asked, voice still like frost – cold, brittle. No room for mercy. No room for error. Not this time.

Not now.

"Ronald Adair," she answered.

"Why is Adair dead?" Sherlock snapped back.

"I don't know," Hanning said. A single shake of her head. A palm flat on the table.

They'd been wrong.

Misreading a text message – not an entirely innocent one, but this wasn't the trap they'd believed they were stepping into.

Sherlock could feel his own doubt reflected off his brother.

Might not even be a trap at all.

"Then why are we here?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm sorry it was a set up," directed mostly at John, "but I couldn't talk at the club. Yeah, I recognized both of you – thought you were dead after that fall," that was entirely to Sherlock, "but I heard rumours."

"And you've heard rumours about Sebastian Moran." Mycroft's voice, calm and collected, as if this weren't unexpected, as if he'd known.

He hadn't, Sherlock was sure of that. It wouldn't have played like this otherwise.

"Some." She was reluctant now, but not leading them. Concerned for her own safety, afraid to say too much. "I said I couldn't talk at the club – I'm not supposed to say anything at all."

"Have you signed an agreement with your employer?" Mycroft asked. Hesitation then a nod from Hanning. "That will be seen to. Ms. Hanning, we need to know everything you know about Colonel Moran."

—

"Have you ever seen him?"

Giselle shook her head, pursing her lips slightly.

"Or at least if I have, I didn't know it was him," she amended. John caught the quiet gust of a sigh from Sherlock – impatience, irritation. He wanted information she didn't necessarily have. He wanted her to get to the point.

"I've heard his name at the club. From time to time. Whispers, really."

_Whispers_. John wondered if she had any idea at all how closely she was mimicking Moriarty – things said about him, things said by him.

She didn't know, of course. The wording of the text had been too similar to a taunt at the pool, and they'd fallen for it without intending to, without considering any other possibilities.

John could still remember the cold weight in his stomach when he'd read it, the slow widening of Sherlock's eyes when he'd shown it to the detective. Everything was coming back to Moriarty even when it shouldn't have been. Creating phantom links, making them jump at their own shadows.

Sherlock should have seen through it.

He would have, once.

The realization made John uneasy, made him glance at the detective's face, searching an impassive expression for some chink in the armour. He thought he saw it in the fine lines around Sherlock's eyes, in the faint crease between his eyebrows.

John wondered if it would ever end, this brittle uncertainty.

The thought of Mary made his lungs tighten again. He'd put up with whatever he had to if it could help her. Inconveniencing a pretty bartender who had information for them was a small price to pay.

"Did Adair ever say anything about him?" That was Mycroft, measured and composed as usual. He and Sherlock were sitting side by side in the café chairs, both looking out of place. Too formal and cold, like carved marble statues.

"Once that I know of, and not to me. I overheard him – I wasn't listening deliberately, but I knew by then to pay attention for Moran's name."

"What did he say?" Mycroft asked at the same time Sherlock said: "Why?"

Giselle's eyes darted between them as if trying to figure out who was in charge. John wondered how much Sherlock was celebrating inwardly when she answered him first.

"Because I knew enough to know that a number of our members owed him money, and at least one of them didn't pay. Christopher Blake. He died. A car crash in the Swiss Alps. Officially it was an accident – icy roads, winter storm, that sort of thing, but people talked about it afterwards. That's the only time I heard Mister Adair mention Moran." She met Mycroft's gaze, answering him before he could repeat his question. "He said, 'the devil never looks it'."

"How do you know it was about Moran? Did Adair say his name?" Sherlock demanded.

"The woman he was talking to did. She owed him money, I think."

"A regular at your club?" Mycroft enquired.

"Sometimes," Giselle replied. "Katheryn Dara. She's from Edinburgh – I only see her a handful of times a year. I don't know how well she and Mister Adair knew each other, so don't ask."

"Ronald Adair liked to gamble," Mycroft observed. It wasn't a question but he let it hang in the air like one, and John saw the faint flicker around Sherlock's eyes as he kept himself from rolling them.

"He did," Giselle confirmed.

"Do you think he owed Moran money?" Sherlock asked. Giselle's sudden laugh startled them all; John felt Sherlock's tension mirror his own.

"No, Mister Holmes, I don't. Believe me, you learn to read when people are desperate, especially when they're desperate about money. _Especially_ when they've been drinking. Ronald Adair never was, and not because his family had money either. I've seen that, too, and they're always worried about being cut off. I have no idea why anyone would want him dead, but if it was about a debt, I'll bet you anything that Sebastian Moran owed _him._"

—

"And before you ask, I might have an idea of where you could find him," she continued. "Or at least someone who might know. There's no gambling at the club – not even wagering on races while they're being run. I know a few of the places our clients gamble, and chances are Mister Adair went there, too."

She fished a pen and scrap of paper from her handbag, scrawling an address on one side, then a name and number on the other. John frowned when she slid it across to Sherlock, meeting the doctor's eyes as she did so.

"His name is Mike. Friend of a friend. Sorry to have done this to you, John, but it was the best way to avoid suspicion. You're probably going to have to do the same, although," her eyes slid to Sherlock, holding his gaze steadily, "I suspect _you're_ much more likely to be his type."


	15. Chapter 15

The sound of voices from the living room was mercifully muffled with the bedroom door closed. The rise and fall was still audible, but the words were lost even as Sherlock leaned his forehead against the cool, solid wood.

He scarcely had time for hesitation. He certainly had no time for mistakes.

He'd made them anyway.

A text that so closely mirrored Jim's words. It could easily have been a taunt – but it hadn't been. He hadn't stopped to consider the possibility that it might be something else. Not innocent, but not the message he'd believed it to be.

_Doubt_.

He'd trained himself out of it, become so certain of – and so reliant on – his senses. That confidence had drained away under the influence of drugs in Grimpen. It should have dissipated as the effects wore off but had crept into the corners of his mind, taking up residency in shadows he couldn't see, in whispers, in lies and deceptions.

Jim's insanity made him question his own mind. Had he made the right choices? Had he done all he could?

_Nonsense_, Sherlock told himself, pressing a palm firmly against the door, tipping his head back. The past was the past. To doubt what he'd done was a waste of energy. A waste of time.

Time was a scarce commodity right now.

He shed his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly on the bed. How quickly old habits returned, even when everything else was disrupted. He ignored the thought as he scanned the clothing hung so carefully in his closet.

The purple shirt would do – Sherlock was vain enough to admit he looked good in it. Black trousers, black shoes. A good contrast, nothing garish or out of place. He changed with quick, economical movements, watching himself in the bathroom mirror, keeping his gaze strictly on the surface.

There was an image he needed to reflect, one that gave no hints as to the doubts and urgency beneath the façade. A man at a bar, flush with cash, looking for some fun.

Sherlock fiddled with the buttons on his cuffs and made a mental note to contact Lestrade while waiting for his brother to deliver information on Michael Ansell. He wanted no police presence at the club – particularly not a former DI whose face might still be recognized from his unwanted time in the public eye. It was possible someone might know who Sherlock was – perhaps even Ansell himself – but their options were limited.

If he was going to be made, it was easier to explain away his presence rather than that of an official police officer's.

Satisfied with his clothes, Sherlock closed his ensuite bathroom door carefully before fussing with his hair. It was perhaps the one secret he had kept from John.

"_You should tell him the truth, Sherlock."_

The memory of Mrs. Hudson's voice came out of nowhere like a surprise assault.

He pressed his palms into the countertop, leaning forward as he closed his eyes. There was no time for this grief, not when someone still living – someone whom John loved – needed their help.

"_He has the truth."_

"_Not all of it, dear. Not your truth."_

Sherlock stalked back into the bedroom, the heat of anger washing away the guilt. If he didn't have time for memories, he certainly didn't have time for _this._

The bedroom door was pushed inward a heartbeat after the half-hearted, cursory knock, and it was John's eyes that met his, unwavering in hope and conviction.

"Right. What do we do now?"

* * *

The uncertain hope in Harry's eyes was almost too much to take, and John felt an unexpected – and unaccustomed – relief when Sherlock vanished into his bedroom, leaving the doctor with his sister and Stephen, the friend staying with her.

"Do you know anything?" Harry demanded immediately, and John hated having to shake his head, see her shoulders slump under the blanket she had draped across them.

"But we have a lead," he said quickly, sitting in Sherlock's chair across from her, taking her hands in his. "Someone who works where Ronald Adair gambled, who might be able to identify Moran for us."

"You haven't talked to him yet?"

"Not yet. We just got his name. We're waiting on Mycroft to get us information about him, and Sherlock wants to meet him on the job."

Harry pursed her lips, searching John's eyes, and managed a small nod.

"Don't give up, Harry," he insisted. "It's Sherlock he wants. He's got no reason to hurt Mary."

_No reason to keep her alive, either._

The thought hung between the two of them, reflected in his sister's face, and John tried not to believe it despite the dull weight of fear resting in his lungs.

"God I want a drink," his sister said, voice broken with brittle laughter.

"I know," John replied. Harry shook her head, freeing her hands to press them over her eyes. John crouched in front of her, pulling her into a hug, wishing he had something to say. He could think of nothing that didn't sound hollow, so just held her as if that would be enough to wash away all her fear.

"Have you eaten anything?" he asked, pulling away to study her face. Harry closed her eyes, shaking her head again. "You need to. And have something to drink. Tea, I mean."

"I know what you mean," his sister murmured.

"Come on," Stephen said, slipping a hand into hers and tugging gently. "Have you got anything in the kitchen, John?"

The doctor nodded, stepping back enough for Harry to push herself to her feet.

"Make yourselves at home." He watched them vanish into the tiny kitchen, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands when he heard the familiar sounds of the kettle being filled and cupboards being opened.

_Come on, Watson_, he told himself, sucking in a deep breath to steady his resolve.

Sherlock had a plan. Sherlock _always_ had a plan, John reminded himself, even if he didn't like them. Even if they were changed on the fly and involving stepping off a rooftop and plummeting to a faked death.

If he could pull that off, he could do this.

He had to.

John knocked on the door and pushed it open, barely registering the surprise on the detective's face.

"Right," he said firmly. "What do we do now?"

* * *

The question didn't startle him so much as John's abrupt appearance did – he'd tuned out the muted conversation and had failed to notice when it had ended. In the space of a breath, Sherlock had himself under control again, smoothing away the surprise as he tugged fastidiously at his cuffs.

"It appears I may have a date," he commented, watching John's eyebrows lift, that double crease of surprise and confusion appear between his eyes.

"First time for everything, I suppose," his friend replied.

"Hardly," Sherlock said, the word leaving his lips before he had a chance to think it, let alone stop it. John's posture relaxed with brief shock and Sherlock busied himself deliberately by putting on his watch.

"Are you serious?" John asked.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Sherlock replied, a cool note dipping into his voice, pride irritatingly stung by the question.

"For cases, right? Like this? Or real ones?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. He could feel John's stare on him and ignored it deliberately. For cases, of course, but he'd been young once. What he'd said to John in Angelo's over two years ago about being married to his work had been true. It was simpler, no complications, no unwanted entanglements.

It _had_ been simpler. And a lot of things had been true, once.

"We'll go down to Mrs. Hudson's," he said, ignoring his own thoughts as pointedly as he'd ignored John's gaze. "No sense in upsetting your sister more than she already is, and I need to be able to speak freely. Or do you intend to stand there and stare at me all day?"

* * *

A crowded club, no different than any other in terms of the number of people, but perhaps in the quality. Or rather the _appearance_ of quality – the patrons were better dressed here and, by and large, far more sober they might have been elsewhere. Easy enough to identify those intoxicated on alcohol or on something stronger, but something in seeing it made him want a cigarette. Beneath that, a buried craving for cocaine. He ignored it with practiced habit.

John's presence helped. Once again more refined than his normal self, in a shirt and tie. No jacket this time – no need for that much formality. He had his instructions, and Sherlock was confident he'd follow them, even if he disapproved somewhat. Misgivings weren't unexpected, nor were they really directed at Sherlock.

Mary's life rested in their hands, and they were making decisions without knowing precisely where those would lead, or what the result might be for her.

They wound their way to the bar, the pace Sherlock set slow enough to draw attention to himself, quick enough so as not to look suspicious. He insinuated himself into an empty space between two small seated groups, leaving not quite enough space for John to join him.

His quarry met his eyes and nodded an acknowledgement of his presence; the short wait was only added fuel for John's ruse. When Sherlock ordered their drinks – whiskey, straight for himself and a gin and tonic for John – he heard the doctor mutter the planned comment about heading to the poker tables. He ignored it deliberately, flashing his most charming smile at Ansell with a murmured thanks. A quick smile but a genuine one in return – good. When Sherlock turned, drinks in hand, John had vanished.

He sighed, the expression of someone long used to this sort of disappointment, and plunked John's glass back on the bar.

"Of course," he muttered, not quite under his breath. The comment or the tone caught Ansell's attention; dark eyes flickered questioningly at the abandoned glass.

"It's mine if he doesn't want it," Sherlock said, letting the right note of petulance slip into his voice, only a touch, nothing more. "Another one of these," he added, knocking his whiskey back before making a show of finding John through the crowd and scowling. "Thanks. You'd think you'd learn to make the time when you had the chance, don't you?"

* * *

The money Sherlock had collected impersonating Adair weighed heavily in John's pocket, lightening somewhat when he lost the first round in short order. His hand hadn't been good but he'd made little effort to improve it – it was easier to pay attention to what was happening at the bar if he didn't bother too much with the game.

It irked him to be here, even though he understood. He could listen in to the chatter around him, and it would leave Sherlock to his own devices. He'd gone in alone on the "date" with Giselle, he reminded himself. This wasn't really any different.

It was still an act. The smile on Sherlock's face, the way he made eye contact, the way he broke eye contact. The deliberately absentminded and unconscious way he smoothed his shirt collar or brushed a strand of dark hair from his eyes. The way he leaned in slightly – not too much, nothing overly suggestive – the way he sipped his drink while listening intently.

It was surprising – uncomfortably so – to realize how annoyed the whole thing made him. There had to be a way around this. Their time could have been used more productively. Surely Mycroft could have just had Ansell picked up and demanded the information. _He_ wasn't working for Moran, after all.

_As far as Giselle knows,_ John reminded himself sternly, refocusing on the game and winning a small pot at the end of the current round. It would make him slightly more confident in the next round and he'd lose – he'd make himself lose. Easy enough to let the money go when it wasn't really his anyway.

The talk at the table – what little there was – was desultory at best. He tried to pay more attention to the conversations going on around the table, but the ebb and flow of voices was hard to track. In the end, he settled for keeping a sharp ear open for Moran's name while keeping an eye on Sherlock.

_Sherlock Holmes dating_, he thought, giving his head a small shake. It seemed like an odd joke, but his friend had been serious. John wondered who, and when. And what it must have been like.

Knowing Sherlock, probably awkward and over very quickly – although the detective was clearly holding his own at the bar. Any past "dates" that had been for cases had probably gone fantastically, John thought with an inward snort.

He didn't like the pang of jealousy in the pit of his stomach. It was the time Ansell was eating up – maybe robbing Mary of whatever she had left. Resolutely, John refused to let himself think about that, or what she must be going through. They had to find her first. Anything else could be dealt with afterwards.

He won another hand, this time more by luck, and celebrated by ordering a round for the table. John let himself be dealt in again, but kept a closer eye on the bar, where Sherlock and Ansell were locked in conversation now, the bartender's face serious. Sherlock still wore his coy smile, but John could tell that it was just for show.

The round seemed to drag on, but Sherlock was clearly paying him some attention – somehow – because the conversation wrapped up only when John could see the end coming. Sherlock threaded his way through the crowd to the door; John made a mental note of it and refocused on the game.

To his surprise, he won again, the victory entirely unintentional.

"I'll take that as a sign," he said, bowing out gracefully. Fending off admonishments to stay and give them the chance to win their money back was easy enough when he put the second and third rounds on him as well. He kept it to smiles and jokes as he bid them goodnight, the superficial humour vanishing as he shouldered through the crowd to the door. Without second guessing himself, John headed up the street to the nearest side street – it would lead around to the back of the club, and Sherlock was bound to be waiting for him.

A hand closed over his arm as Sherlock stepped from the shadows of a doorway; John fought an instinctive reaction to defend himself. The press of fingertips on his triceps guided him forward, matching Sherlock's long-legged stride with practiced habit.

The darkened alley behind the club was a maze of bins and shadows, lit by a thin sliver of light where a door had been propped open, barely. Ansell was little more than a silhouette next to it, but light was enough to see the flicker of eyes his way and the hint of surprise on his features when he saw John.

"Prove it to me," he said to Sherlock, voice low in the darkness.

"I need your phone," Sherlock said, glancing down at John, who fumbled in his pocket for it. It was passed to Ansell along with the scrap of paper on which Giselle had written his name and subjected to a long minute of scrutiny before it was returned with a sigh.

"Fine," Ansell said. "Because Giselle doesn't mess around, and she knows the game. You should let it go, though. He's not someone you want to mess with."

"So you know him," John said, a flare of relief and hope surging through him. "Moran."

Ansell hissed at him, giving a sharp shake of his head.

"If I do, I don't know it. Doubt anyone does. But I know some of his people. They come in here sometimes."

"I need names," Sherlock hissed. "Descriptions.

"Even if I could give them to you, they'd mean nothing," Ansell snapped. "You think they're dumb enough to use their real ones? And I can give you something better than descriptions. Faces. The club doesn't have a security system. Bad for business. But sometimes business is bad for us."

"You installed one."

"Above the bar. No one knows it's there except me and one of the bosses. Security for us, you see? Here." His hand disappeared briefly, coming back out of his pocket with a small digital tape. "We make copies at the end of each night. The second poker table in the background. One of the men and one of the women are his."

Sherlock plucked the tape from Ansell's fingers, tucking it into the breast pocket of his shirt beneath his coat.

"Thank you." In the darkness, his baritone seemed deeper and more serious than John had ever heard.

"Giselle owes me now," Ansell replied with a shrug. "And if you get him, everyone around here will breathe a little easier."

With that he was gone, the sliver of light vanishing into darkness as the door closed behind him. Sherlock pulled him back toward the wall, keeping them there as their eyes adjusted to the almost complete lack of light.

An old soldier's instinct made John crouch, pressing on Sherlock's shoulder to make him do the same. He kept his hand where it was, a warning, and listened hard, narrowing his eyes at the shadows closer to the street.

"Down!" Sherlock snapped suddenly, his hand on John's head, pushing him toward the ground as the crack of a gunshot echoed off the walls.


	16. Chapter 16

The variables sleeted through his mind, acknowledged, analyzed, categorized with practiced ease, with little more effort than breathing.

Gun: pistol. One shot fired, at least five rounds left – if it had been fully loaded.

Shooter: five feet ten inches, athletic, trained. Details lost in the shadows. Could be Moran, but unlikely. Neither of them had been shot.

Wind resistance: negligible.

Sounds: shouts in the near distance, sirens further away.

Cover: plastic bins (not good); metal bins (scarcely better).

Visibility: for himself, moderate – he'd been back here long enough, eyes adjusted. For the shooter: poor – targets lost in shadows but their general whereabouts known well enough to do damage with a good shot.

No lucky shots, not from him.

But no time. The sound of footsteps, sirens getting closer.

John: the one thing Sherlock could never account for.

Gone in a blur of movement as the shooter fled, pushing up from crouching to running in a fluid motion that seemed to leave an after-image hanging in the air, fading as he vanished down the alley toward the street. A shout bouncing off the walls – the same way the shot had, sharp, loud, demanding. Not to be ignored.

John: unarmed, giving chase.

For the span of a baited breath, he teetered to the brink, caught in the numbing reality of losing John.

That wasn't an option.

Sherlock cursed but was moving, staggering for balance as he slipped on something – water, a piece of rubbish, it hardly mattered. The distance between himself and John growing as it shrunk between John and their would-be attacker.

Between John and an armed and trained gunman.

Hard soles pounding over even harder pavement, ears straining to filter out the extraneous sound. Shouts. Sirens. Breathing. Pulse.

A flash as he turned the corner, leading him across the street, dodging a vehicle without thought. Down another alley, pulling up the grid in his mind, seeing the zigzag of back lanes and forcing another burst of speed because there were dead ends and blind traps, and if the shooter frequented the club, he might know them all.

John was going in blind, without back-up, unarmed. Pursuing Mary – or the hope of Mary – and creating a barrier between the gunman and Sherlock.

He'd done the same once. Set a trap and walked into another one. Stepped out into thin air to avoid the snare closing around both of them. The memory of nothingness surrounding him snapping as his arms closed around John's torso, feeling the exhalation that came out as a grunt, letting Sherlock tighten his hold.

Cold, wet, hard. Slapping him back to reality when they hit the ground, rolling, a grunt, from Sherlock this time, as his shoulders connected with an empty metal bin, sending the lid clattering to the ground. John struggled; Sherlock gripped harder.

"For god's sake shut up!" he hissed in the darkness, pinning John's legs with one of his own, waiting for the sound of his voice to register. The moment came in the slightest relaxation of taut muscles.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Sherlock demanded – he wanted to shout, the pressure building in his lungs, but kept his voice low. Calling attention to themselves could bring anyone – the shooter, bystanders, the police. A palm pressed over the tape in his breast pocket, fingers skimmed it quickly. No damage. Good.

"What was that?" John echoed. "What the hell is _this_?"

"That was me saving your life, John!"

"Oh again?" John snapped, pushing himself to his feet, Sherlock immediately behind him, snagging the collar of John's shirt to keep him in place. "Sherlock, they have Mary–"

"Stupid to theorize without all the facts, John! You don't know that! _We_ don't know that – nor who he was! What if it had been Moran?"

"What if?" John shot back. "Moran _does_ have Mary, Sherlock!"

"And neither of us has a gun!"

"And now we've lost our best chance of finding her!"

"Our best chance lies in the tape Ansell gave us, not in chasing gunmen in dark alleyways!"

"_You're_ going to lecture me about not chasing assassins in alleys?"

"Yes! Yes I am if you're going to be so stupid as to do it unarmed and without warning! He wouldn't have come with only one round, John! Given time to aim with some light, do you think he would have missed?"

"They've got Mary–"

"And if you're dead, what good does that do her? What good does it do me?"

John stared at him a moment, blue eyes wide, lips parted.

"You?" he spat. "What good does it do _you_? What good did it do me when _you_ were dead for nine months?"

"You were alive," Sherlock hissed, breaking the height difference between them, leaning down so close that John drew away slightly, eyes going even wider – surprise this time, not anger. "_You were alive_. _That's_ the good it did you."

John drew a breath for a retort, but Sherlock was tired of the argument that kept them going in this pointless circle, tired of rehashing the same choice whose outcome never changed. That he would have made again and again and again if he'd had to.

He released John's collar, pressing that same hand into short, sandy hair, and erased the rest of the distance between them, catching John's mouth in a hard kiss.

* * *

The shock paralyzed him, as though everything had stopped and dropped away, leaving him standing on nothing. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing – except Sherlock's mouth on his, the taste of whiskey on hot breath, the faltering sensation of dry and wet lips moving against his own.

Reality snapped back and there was hard ground under his moving feet and the sound of a faint grunt that John caught in his mouth when he pushed Sherlock against the nearest wall. Hands tangled into dark hair, pulling Sherlock down, forcing his mouth open to invade it, claim it. Sherlock was fighting him – not against him, but for dominance John didn't want to give him.

Not now. Not after nine months.

He used his weight and army training, pinning Sherlock more firmly against the wall, dragging his teeth over the detective's sharp jawline and down to rake across that ridiculously long neck. Sherlock made a sound John would never have considered possible for him. A whimper, a moan, it hardly mattered – the sound shot straight to his groin, heightened desperately as he directed long fingers to work his belt loose.

John shoved a thigh between Sherlock's; the detective gasped, curling forward as much as he was able, hands closing convulsively around John's hips for balance. Chest-to-chest, and John wanted suddenly for there to be nothing between them – not the rasp of cotton or the slide of silk–

Or the unyielding outline of the plastic case.

"No," he managed, wrestling himself back under control, seeing the shock flash across the detective's face, his own voice trembling on the single word. "No." More firmly now, hands on Sherlock's shoulders, keeping him in place. "Not like this, Sherlock. Not here. Not now. Mary needs us. She _needs_ us. The work is important."

There was a brittle, suspended moment before Sherlock nodded jerkily, the motion so lacking in his normal grace that it rooted John to the spot again. Before he could change his mind – before he could even really think about it – he kissed Sherlock again. Hard. Possessively. Making sure the message was clear. This wasn't rejection, only postponement.

"We need to find her," he said, pressing their foreheads together, the heat of shared breath brushing over his skin.

"Yes," Sherlock said, voice level despite the shadow of something in his expression – not quite doubt, not quite surprise. "We do."

* * *

It should have been easier to refocus his mind, to bring it back under his command, but John had insisted on checking for injuries, using his hands to confirm what his eyes couldn't see in the darkness of the alley.

There had been something else behind the touch, something not entirely clinical. There always had been a caring warmth, a fondness Sherlock had always recognized for what it was.

Now there was more.

John was touching him to touch him; the medical check was an excuse. His skin remembered the sensation even now, back at Baker Street, carting equipment down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's old flat so he could work without disturbing Harry. John was managing her – an inconvenient but inescapable reminder of the all too human element of this case – leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

He breathed the quiet air. The smells he associated with Mrs. Hudson – baking, tea, perfume – were fading now, turning to nothing, to the bland neutrality of a place that belonged to no one. Sherlock closed his eyes, palms pressed together, fingertips touching his lips. Not to focus his mind, but to clear it. To wash away everything he did not need in that moment. All the messy _humanness_ that had swept into his life when he'd taken on the case of a man on death row in America, when the door to the lab at Bart's had opened to a limping man.

He was surprised that the disruptions didn't bother him, gratified at how easily they were temporarily shelved.

The work was important.

Sherlock opened his eyes, turning to his task. All the small mechanical steps involved in transferring the video from its tape to his laptop, minutes spent in silence listening to the creak of floorboards above him. Willing to admit – _privately_ – that he was really waiting for John's footsteps on the stairs.

He oriented himself to the video's viewpoint. Behind and above the bar, as Ansell had said. A wide angle, but one that had clearly been placed with care; the patrons at the bar were visible both standing and sitting. The video quality was good enough to make out the faces of those at the gaming tables or mingling in the background with a reliable degree of confidence.

The date and time were stamped on the video, the clock keeping track of seconds as they ticked past. Eyes skimmed the patrons at the tables – no one he recognized, but it scarcely mattered. Taking in details, making mental notes, jotting down written ones for reinforcement.

Mycroft would run the images through facial recognition software; if the patrons were unknown to his brother, they wouldn't be for long.

The table Ansell had indicated – second in the background – had four players and the dealer, whose back was to the camera. Sherlock wrote off the dealer as an unlikely culprit; the man was staff, so Ansell would have identified him if he'd been suspicious. The other four – one women and three men – were of interest.

The least likely of the men was skittish, obviously nervous. He was losing, and from the pinched expression on his face, the hunch of his shoulders, the fit of his clothing, he lost often. It could be a cover, but if it was, it was a good one. Too good. No one would suspect the wretched middle aged addict as an assassin's henchman.

Sherlock didn't either. Not entirely. Ansell knew who they were; some of the patrons likely did, too. Why keep a cover like that if it wasn't necessary?

The second man had more possibility – older, in his fifties, a professional gambler. He wasn't winning big, but he _was_ winning. The game was the important thing for him, and he was in clear competition to the woman to his left and the man beside her.

Who was the shooter.

The set of his shoulders and the way he held himself was enough – Sherlock recognized it almost effortlessly. He had a face now, one of Moran's men. Or perhaps Moran himself. It was possible he'd been wrong in his assessment in the alley. Unlikely, but possible. He was younger than Sherlock imagined Moran – but imagination and preconceptions had no place here. If this _was_ Moran, he kept his identity to himself, and had chosen to miss when aiming at them.

If it wasn't the colonel, it was certainly one of his men. Watching the game play out, Sherlock reviewed his memory of the club, scanning each face mentally the way he was visually – but no, he hadn't seen this man there. He'd been waiting, perhaps in a private room, perhaps outside. It scarcely mattered.

They'd been expected.

Of course they had.

The woman gave him pause. Ansell had said to watch for her, but there was nothing in her demeanour that hinted of her involvement, or knowledge of the man beside her. That could also be a cover. A good one. She was the professional gambler's strongest opponent, focus directed entirely at the game. Unless Sherlock missed his mark, the certainty and broadness to her movements – even when kept confined – identified her as an American.

It was possible. No reason Moran couldn't have hired from other countries. No reason she couldn't be one of his.

_One _of the women.

One of the men and one of the women. Ansell's exact words – but there was only one woman at the table. Sherlock fast forwarded the video slowly, keeping a sharp eye on the patrons nearby until she was suddenly right there, sliding into the vacant seat next to the nervous player.

Sherlock stilled the image but it was a bad shot – her face was hidden by long, dark hair as she sorted her chips. He advanced slowly, fingers fumbling on the keyboard controls when she showed her face.

His mind's immediate, instinctive reaction of "_it can't be_" was quelled – it could be, and it was. It made sense. But he had to be sure. Sherlock moved the tape forward again, more slowly this time, watching the face, the body, the movements. There was nothing that suggested unfamiliarity with the place, anxiety about her role.

He checked the date stamp again. Thought of a key turning easily in an unbroken lock. Of a single set of footprints impressed into a rug.

_No_, he thought when John was suddenly striding through the door, determined, too close for Sherlock to shut the laptop even though his fingers wrapped around the screen, wanting to block the reality from his friend, to spare him the pain that had to come next.

With unwanted accuracy, John honed in on the one face Sherlock did not want him to see.

"Oh my god," Words delivered in a rush of relief and hope and joy. "Sherlock, that's Mary. Oh thank god. Thank god. She's still alive. We have to go back, Sherlock– maybe she's still there now– maybe he sent her back–"

"John." The word cut, but only inside, and it was the hope on his best friend's face that cut deeper. "This is from two weeks ago."


End file.
